


An Unwilling Heart

by KayleighH2203



Series: The "Heart" Series [1]
Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Adventure, Adventure & Romance, During The Hobbit, Eventual Romance, F/M, Original Characters - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-08
Updated: 2018-08-11
Packaged: 2018-12-12 22:30:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 30
Words: 73,701
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11746497
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KayleighH2203/pseuds/KayleighH2203
Summary: *Originally posted on Tumblr*Morag is a Dunedain, a wandering warrior, hired to lead Thorin and Company to the Lonely Mountain, entangled in the quest to reclaim the Lonely Mountain. But why does she continue to help Thorin, a Dwarf who shows nothing but disdain for her? And what will she do when she becomes embroiled in a turbulent love affair with the Elf-King himself.





	1. The Woodland Realm

**Author's Note:**

> I originally posted this on Tumblr back in September 2014. Warning: plenty of swearing in this and many future chapters; OFC has a foul mouth.

Morag hissed a little in pain as she probed the wound on her cheek. Damn tree branch had flicked back in her face, cutting her. It felt a little on the deep side but not so bad it would require more than a little cleaning. She glanced around. Still no sign of the Dwarfs. How she’d managed to lose thirteen of the smelliest, noisiest Dwarfs she’d ever met, she didn’t know. One minute they’d been following the path through the forest, next she’d looked behind and all of them, and Bilbo, had vanished. She’d slowed her pace for a while before stopping after the incident with the tree branch. That had been over an hour ago, and still no sign of them. The idiots must have wandered off the path. She sighed. She was not going in after them. They weren’t paying her enough. Hell, they hadn’t even paid her yet. She would be perfectly in the right to walk off and leave their stupid asses wandering the forest until they dropped dead. On the other hand, if she stuck around and found them, there was some coin in it for her and her boots were on the verge of falling apart on her.   
“One more hour,” she said to herself, “I’ll wait one more hour and then I’ll go.” She dropped down onto the path, sitting at the base of the tree. It was nice to enjoy the silence, no farting, no snoring, nothing.

The hour passed slowly. Morag was soon starting to miss even Fili and Kili, who had been nothing but pains since Rivendell. She glanced up to gauge the position of the sun. Time’s up.  
“Time to go,” she muttered, heaving herself to her feet. If she walked quickly and through the night with only short breaks, she’d be out of the forest by sun down tomorrow at the latest. But something in her gut twisted. The last time she’d come through this forest had been a long time ago, and with her mother. Her mother was excellent at tracking and hiding, even from Elves. The Wood Elves were not known for being particularly welcoming of strangers, and Morag knew that she’d be as welcome as a pile of faeces left on the doorstep. She began heading eastwards, her back to the sun. Everything about this place made her feel uneasy. It was too quiet. There were no birds, no insects. There wasn’t even a breeze to make the leaves rustle. Her own breathing seemed thunderous. She shivered and pulled her patched-up leather coat tighter around her to ward off any imaginary chill. She loved this coat. Her mother had given it to her when she was younger. Thick and lined with deer hide and a little bit of rabbit fur around the collar and cuffs, it served as a blanket and some rudimentary armour. It was old, in dire need of a wash and stank of wood smoke but Morag wouldn’t change it for the world.

She marched on, following the broken Elf-road. It had seen better days but then again, so had the Woodland Realm and the lands around it. Darkness dwelt this side of the Misty Mountains. Morag had been raised here in its shadow, travelling with her mother and her people from the day she was born. It had made her the perfect guide for Thorin and his company. She knew this land well, better than any Dwarf did. They stuck to the roads too much, too out in the open. Orcs knew roads, they knew it meant travellers with food, goods and not much in the way of defence. A sudden cold breeze blew down the path, gathering up Morag’s unruly black curls and blowing them in front of her face. But the breath on the back of her neck was hot. She froze a second before the stranger spoke.  
“ _Daro_!”  
‘Shit,’ she thought, ‘Elves.’ The sneaky bastards must have been in the trees. How long had they been watching her? Did they know about the Company lost somewhere in the forest? She raised her hands up above her head, hearing the faint sound of a bow being pulled tight.  
“Search her,” the Elf behind her said. One walked around her to face her. Morag rolled her eyes and held her arms out straight at the sides.

The elf began patting her down, removing her knives, small axe (which was more for chopping firewood) and her sword. It was when he took her small coin purse that she forgot everything her mother taught her about dealing with Elves. She immediately went to snatch it back. It was all the coin she had in the world and she wasn’t about to have someone take it from her. There was a small tussle, made all the more confusing by the Elves darting about, unsure as to whether they should draw their weapons or not. It ended with the Elf striking her with his elbow. The sharp blow to the head sent her falling backwards onto the ground. She was immediately hauled to her knees, her arms pulled back as her hands were bound with rope.  
“ _Sevig thû úan_ ,” the Elf who had knocked her down said plainly, “ _Pedin I phith in aníron, a nin ú-cheniathog_.”(You smell like a monster. I can say what I wish, and you won’t understand me.) A few of the Elves snorted with laughter. Morag rolled her eyes.  
“ _Pe-channas!_ ” she barked, “ _Pedin edhellen. Ego, mibo orch!_ ” (Idiot. I speak Elvish. Go kiss an orc.) The Elf stepped back in shock. ‘Prick,’ she thought.  
“ _Prestad?_ ” A voice called (Is there trouble?) It was the Elf who had stood behind her, though they now sounded someway off. The tone sounded like they weren’t so much asking a question, as they were making a statement. It meant the same in any language. I’m losing patience, now hurry up.

Prick, as she had now dubbed the Elf who had searched her, pulled her to her feet and started marching her down the road, heading eastwards. Stood down the road were two Elves. One was tall and blond, male. A Sindar Elf by the looks of him, nobility, probably the commander of this little group. Next to him was a red-headed female, shorter, more dangerous looking. Silvan probably. Or was it Noldor? She always got those two mixed up.  
“What is your name?” the Sindar Elf asked. When Morag didn’t answer, Prick gave her a shove. She still didn’t answer. ‘There’s power in a name,’ someone had once told her, ‘To reveal your name is to reveal your true self. It’s why some folks have two.’  
“Perhaps the King will loosen your tongue,” the Elf spoke again, staring down at her. Morag swallowed. The Elven-King’s reputation preceded him, cruel, uncharitable and unwilling to tolerate trespassers. There were tales of travellers being caught by his patrols, never to be heard from again. Her eyes darted about, looking for a means of escape. But there was none. Surrounded by over a dozen Elves, unarmed and with her hands tied, she wouldn’t get far before they caught her. Her best bet was to let them take her but to keep as much information to herself as possible.

***

The sun was just beginning to rise again when she saw the Elven Halls for the first time. Built into the side of a small mountain hidden by trees, the gate was, frankly, beautiful. The Elves in armour guarding it, less so. More frightening. Their faces were hidden, Morag couldn’t even see their eyes. Once inside, the Sindar Elf took hold of her arm before turning to Prick.  
“I will take her,” he said, “You have done enough.” Prick bowed his head and stepped away. Morag fought off laughter. Well, someone was in trouble and it wasn’t her for once. The Sindar Elf said something in Elvish a little too quickly for Morag to catch but the rest of the troop, with the exception of the She-Elf, left.   
“Move,” the Sindar Elf ordered. Morag had to trot quickly to keep up with the Elves long strides. The two Elves led her along a long twisting path through the Halls until they were almost at the centre. Up some steps and there before them was a magnificent throne, up more steps and carved out of the base of a huge oak tree. Sat upon it was one of the most beautiful creatures Morag had ever seen, the Elven-King.  
“Thranduil,” she whispered, unaware she had even uttered it. She didn’t take her eyes off him, schooling her face back into a steely glare that was a permanent fixture these days.

From where she was stood, Thranduil seemed impossibly tall. Long legs, elegantly crossed in front of him, a long graceful neck, everything about him that she could see was long and slim, down to his fingers and the tips of his ears. His silver-blonde hair draped over his shoulders like a cascading waterfall of platinum. They stopped.  
“ _Ada_ ,” the Sindar Elf addressed the Elven-King. That made Morag glance briefly at the Elf stood on her left. He did bear some resemblance to the King, though his face was rounder and his demeanour didn’t hold half as much majesty as Thranduil’s. A Prince had found her, it seemed.  
“What have you brought before me, Legolas?” The King’s voice was deep and seemed to rumble around the cavernous Halls, drawing Morag’s attention back to him.  
“We found her in the forest, on the Old Road,” Legolas replied, “I assume we speak the Common Tongue for her benefit.”  
“Yes,” Thranduil replied.  
“You heard of the incident with Duilin?” the She-Elf spoke for the first time.  
“Indeed I have,” Thranduil said nonchalantly, “I trust you will punish him for his misconduct, Legolas?” Legolas nodded.  
“Good,” said Thranduil, standing up. His stance was casual, knees slightly bent, shoulders relaxed. He looked even taller now, towering over all three of them. He looked down at Morag, his expression unreadable. She knew what he was doing.  
“What is your business in this forest?” he asked. He was using his high platform and his height to appear intimidating.  
“Just passing through,” Morag replied. It wasn’t going to work on her.  
“Who are you travelling with?” There was no softness in his voice, this was no friendly chat. This was a questioning.  
“No one, I’m alone,” Morag lied. She wasn’t about to give up the Dwarfs…yet. She wanted to see if the Elven-King would offer a bargain first. She was practical after all. If the Elven-King could offer her more than the Dwarfs, she wouldn’t have a second thought about selling them out.  
“Do not think to lie to me!” Thranduil said angrily, “I will not tolerate lies from something that has trespassed onto my lands.” His expression had changed to one of disgust as he said ‘something’, making Morag want to step back. But she didn’t, no matter how hard her heart was pounding. She stood firm, even though this Elf she had never met before was staring at her with eyes that seemed to look straight into her soul.

She stared up at the elf sat high up on the throne. Her upper lip curled as if she was snarling. Fine, he wanted to talk to her as if she was some dog that had shit on his fancy-ass carpet, she could be that. She let a low growl rumble in the back of her throat. It was deep and unsettling coming from someone female, something she knew very well. Thranduil raised a single thick eyebrow at the sound, but she knew the noise had worked. His shoulders has tensed slightly, one of his knees had locked straight. She smirked, a few of her black curls slipping and falling over one eye. She grinned, baring her teeth at him before twisting around on her heel. She knew she’d done it now, turning her back on him. Well, screw him. Her gaze turned to Legolas and his Silvan friend.  
“Come along now, Your Highness,” she said, “I’m dying to see your father’s dungeons.” And with that, she stomped off down the steps in her big boots, hands still bound together, leaving three bemused Elves staring after her.

***

After Legolas had sent Tauriel after Morag to take her to her cell, Thranduil rolled his shoulders to loosen them. That…woman had sent chills down his spine with that growl.  
“ _Ada_?” Legolas’ voice permeated the odd silence that had fallen over his ears.  
“Yes, Legolas,” Thranduil spoke quietly, “What do you make of her?”  
“A young woman, claiming to be travelling alone,” Legolas said, “She would be a prime target for an Orc ambush. She must have companions somewhere or a death wish.”  
“Yes,” Thranduil mused, “Take your troop back out on patrol, find her companions. Maybe then she will talk.”  
“Yes,  _Ada_ ,” Legolas said. Thranduil dismissed his son with a wave of his hand, seating himself back on his throne. Legolas bowed his head and quickly left, leaving the Elven-King to contemplate his next move.  

 

 


	2. Hunger

Morag stared up at the roof of her cell. It certainly wasn’t the worst place she’d ever spent the night. She smiled, knowing that she had made the Elf-King uncomfortable. That was Morag’s favourite pastime; making people uncomfortable. At five foot three inches, she was only a few inches taller than Thorin Oakenshield, one of the Dwarfs she had agreed to help lead to Erebor. Thorin didn’t like it, didn’t like that he couldn’t look down on her. Once, early on in the journey, he had tried to assert his dominance over her by berating her whilst she was seated. Once. He hadn’t done it again when he’d found she could stand quickly, and turn nasty just as fast. She was small, and she knew it. So she acted like she was big and tough and the rest of the world was just taller. Making people like Thranduil, who were big and tough, feel uncomfortable, gave Morag a sense of power. Her stomach growled. She’d been in this cell for the best part of a day and hadn’t had anything to eat or drink since the day before she had been captured. That was three days ago now. Thranduil was trying to make her hungry, desperate, playing mind games with her. She’d gone this long without food before now. ‘I am tough, I am big and tough,’ she thought to herself.

A sudden commotion and shouting voices had her sitting up. She knew those voices.  
“Hey, hey, I know those boots,” a voice rang around the cells, “Morag! Morag!” Morag clamoured to the bars of her cell.  
“Bofur?” she called, looking for any sign of the Dwarf’s tell-tale hat. But it was too late. If it had been him, the Elves had taken him away down the stairs to the other cells. The sudden appearance of the Elven Prince outside her cell door almost made her jump. Almost.   
“Hey pretty,” she quipped. The Prince scowled. Shame. She was certain if he smiled, he would look absolutely charming, but no. He was here on his Ada’s business and had to be Mr Serious.  
“My father would like a word,” he said. He unlocked the cell door and pulled her out by her arm before tying her hands together.

As Legolas marched her back through the halls, Morag fought to keep her head up. She hadn’t eaten in three days, her energy was dipping low and she had to clench her fists to keep her hands from shaking. Arriving once more before Thranduil, he was seated in his throne. A plate of food was seated on the arm rest. Morag sniffed. Fresh baked bread, the bastard had fresh baked bread. Her mouth was already beginning to water. Thranduil waved his hand, dismissing his son.   
“Your friends tell the same story,” Thranduil said picking up a piece of fruit and rolling it between his long fingers, “That you were just passing through.”  
“I don’t have any friends,” Morag said, watching his hands. Thranduil stopped playing and ate the fruit silently. Morag just watched him as he chewed and swallowed.  
“I told you, no lies,” he said, reaching for the bread and breaking it open. Morag’s stomach growled noisily as fresh waft of the scent reached her. She loved fresh bread and didn’t get it very often. For her, fresh bread, still hot from the oven was a rare, precious luxury.  
“All you have to do is tell the truth, and you can eat,” Thranduil stated.  
“I don’t have any friends,” Morag ground out, “And I’m not lying.” She was fighting a losing battle. Thranduil was well-fed, well-rested and ready for what he had planned. She was starving, tired and in over her head.  
“I was travelling on my own, I was just passing through,” she said before swallowing. Thranduil took a bite out of the bread.

Morag took a deep breath. It wasn’t the food that was bothering her; it was him. Everything about him just seemed to scream out to her. He was…different to any other male she had ever encountered. The boys she had grown up around were scruffy, clumsy and weak compared to him. They’d never held her attention for long; not even the one who had taken her for the first time, a literal roll in the hay, or the few others since. But Thranduil, the Elven-King, everything about him commanded her attention. His eyes, his mouth, his neck, his hands, even his shoulders and legs. Morag shook her head. Clearly lack of food was making her delirious. That was definitely not an image of him taking her against a wall that has just gone through her head.  
“Just tell me the truth,” he said, standing the bread still in his hands. Morag swallowed nervously as he came down the steps towards her. The smell of the bread grew stronger, stirring her stomach into growling once more. Thranduil moved behind her, the hairs on the back of her neck standing on end.  
“Just tell me the truth,” he whispered, bending down to get closer to her head, “And I will let you eat.” Morag hesitated. There were several truths she could tell him but she wouldn’t reveal them all. She could tell him her name, what she was doing in the forest, where she was going. It boiled down to who she was going to reveal; herself or the Dwarfs. She could expose the Dwarfs, cut her losses and leave. The little commotion earlier could have been a trick, either by the Elves or her imagination.  
“Morag,” she said, “My name is Morag. I’m escorting a company of Dwarves through the forest.”  
“Now, was that so hard?” Thranduil said, holding out a piece of bread with one hand. Morag reached up and snatched it with her bound hands. She’d yanked it towards her mouth before he even had a chance to let go. She didn’t care that he was still holding on to it, it just felt so good to be eating something. Thranduil chuckled from above her head, still not relinquishing hold of the bread. Morag moaned a little at the delicious taste. She loved fresh baked bread and her hands clenched around his a little tighter.  
“Slowly now,” Thranduil said softly, “You would not want to embarrass yourself in front of our guest.” Morag paused and glanced over her shoulder. Flanked on either side by Elves was Thorin Oakenshield. He was looking at her as if she had betrayed him in the worst possible way. She glanced back at her hands. Clutching and almost covering the Elven-Kings, the knuckles were almost white. She could feel Thranduil’s body against her back. It all looked far too intimate for an interrogation. For all Thorin knew, she had sold him out for a piece of bread. Thranduil pulled his hand free and stepped away.  
“Return…Morag to her cell,” he commanded, “See that she is given some water.” One of the guards stepped forward, seizing her by the elbow and pulling her away. She still clutched the piece of bread in her hands.  
“Thorin,” she said as she passed him.  
“Witch-whore,” Thorin hissed back.

Morag’s gut boiled with rage the whole way back. He’d set her up. That no good, son-of-a-bitch Thranduil, had set her up. Made it look like she was in bed with the Elves. She was roughly thrust back into her cell, her hands still bound. As the door clanged shut behind her, she let out an angry scream. Turning around, she saw the guard walking away. It was easy from this distance to pretend that he was actually Thranduil. She was so pissed off, she threw the bread out through the bars of the door. It sailed over the Elf’s shoulder and landed on the ground in just enough time for him to step on it. She screamed again and smacked herself in the head.  
“Idiot,” she growled, “Now I don’t even have the bread anymore!”

It was some hours later that a guard brought her some water and cut the bonds on her wrists. But still there was no sign of food. If she listened hard she could hear the Dwarfs. She could hear Balin trying to reason with them, Bofur singing to himself, and Kili. Kili was talking to someone. Despite her complaints about them ever since Gandalf had approached her near Bree, she was starting to miss the Dwarfs. They were good company, always with a song or a story. Different songs and stories than the ones she had grown up with. And now they thought she had sold them out to the Elves. Her eyes stung. Involuntary tears crawled down one cheek. She glanced upwards. The Elven Prince, Legolas, was stood some way up the stairs, looking down towards the cells where the Dwarfs were being kept. His gaze moved towards her and she stepped back, wiping her face on the back of her hands.

Her stomach growled again. A few mouthfuls of bread were not enough. Sooner or later, they were going to take her back before Thranduil. She needed to prepare herself. She had no idea what tactics he would use. Starvation would only serve him for so long. She wouldn’t put it past him to use seduction. Either by himself or someone he trusted. Torture…that was the least likely but she wouldn’t put anything past him. For the first time in years, she found herself wishing her mother was still with her. She would have known what to do. She would have talked to Thranduil, smoothed everything over and they would have been on their way. But she wasn’t here anymore. She had died in an orc ambush eight years before with a number of their kin, leaving Morag alone in the world. Morag slumped onto the hard slab that served as a bed in the cell. How had everything fallen apart so quickly? Yesterday when she had arrived, she had held some power in her hands. In one swift move this afternoon, Thranduil had taken it away.  
“No friends, no coin, no hope,” she said to herself, “Yeah, this is definitely the worst trouble I’ve ever been in.” She rolled over, ignoring the ache in her stomach and closed her eyes. Those bastards had taken her coat too. Maybe if she could get to sleep, this would all turn out to be a bad dream.

***

No such luck. The next morning when she awoke, she was still locked in the cell, a fresh flagon of water waiting just inside but no food. She caught a whiff of something ripe when she sat up. Another couple investigatory sniffs revealed it was her. She stank and was in dire need of a bath. She hauled herself up to fetch the flagon. As she neared the bars, she heard Thorin’s voice in the early morning quiet.  
“She was eating out of his hand, Balin, literally. She clearly led us here on purpose.”  
“To what end?” Balin replied.  
“Who knows? Gold perhaps? A share of the treasure? I wouldn’t be surprised if she were spreading her legs for the Elf-King as well. They seemed very cosy yesterday. That insolent whore. I should have known the moment Gandalf brought her to us that she was going to be trouble.”  
“Thorin…”  
“You know, I can hear you,” Morag called. Thorin and Balin fell silent. Morag wondered if she should explain what had happened the day before. No. She didn’t have to defend herself. She was starving and Thranduil had been offering food. They hadn’t paid her, so she owed them no loyalty. She was doing what she had been doing for years, whatever she had to in order to stay alive. The Dwarfs coin would do her no good if she was dead. She returned to her bed with the flagon of water. This was her fourth day without food. She felt light-headed just from the few steps to the cell door and back. Perhaps Thranduil would starve the information out of her after all. She stared at the wall. Her name, one of the precious few gifts her mother had given her, and she’d given it up for bread. Morag was one of the few words shared by the native tongues of both her mother and father. In her mother’s tongue it meant ‘Great’ but she didn’t know the meaning in her father’s tongue. Her mother had wanted great things for Morag. Great things that never came to pass. Morag lay down on her side, still staring at the wall. It was like the darkness from outside was creeping in and surrounding her. She wished she could go back to the days when it seemed brighter, to her childhood, running across field and plain with the other children, not paying heed to the Elder’s warnings to stay close. Learning to track and hunt, fight and hide in grass, snow and rain. She smiled. Her days had been filled with play, her nights spent curled up under warm blankets on top of deer hides. Life had been better then. She wanted her mother back, she wanted to go back eight years and change what happened, take her mother’s place. A few soft footsteps passed her cell.  
“I want my coat back,” she said firmly enough to make the footfalls stop for a moment before continuing on.


	3. A Bath

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Flashbacks in italics

_Morag laughed as Halbarad lay flat on his back at her feet._  
_“Idiot!” Beleg said, “You should know never to challenge Morag!”Halbarad moaned in pain as he tried to roll onto his side. Beleg chuckled and handed Morag the bottle of mead they were passing around. She took a swig before handing it back. A low whistle, like a bluejay, interrupted the merriment. Within moments, every sword within the camp had been drawn including Morag. Silence descended as every pair of eyes searched the dark for the intrusion. Nothing until the sound of soft footfalls crushing dry grass and twig as someone approached from the west. As one, they all turned to see two of their kin stepping forward, flanking a tall stranger in grey._  
_“Who are you?” asked Halbarad._  
_“My name is Gandalf the Grey,” spoke the stranger, “I’m looking for someone named Morag. I have a job which may interest her.” Halbarad and the others all turned to look at her._  
_“How do you know my name?” Morag asked, “Who are you?”_  
_“I am a traveller,” Gandalf said, “And I know a lot more about you, Morag, than even some of your kin.” Morag held her sword steady and looked the stranger up and down._  
_“What’s the job?” she asked._  
_“You were raised on the eastern side of the mountains, yes?” asked Gandalf._  
_“I thought you said you knew who I was,” Morag replied. Gandalf smiled from underneath his hat._  
_“I would speak with you in private,” he said. Morag stepped to one side and indicated her lavvu, a small tent made from deer hides and long branches. Gandalf smiled and stooped low as he entered. Morag followed him. Gandalf was already seated on the ground when she came in._  
_“So,” she said, dropping her sword onto her bed, “The job?”_  
_“I need you to help me lead a company East, across the Mountains and through the Greenwood,” Gandalf explained._  
_“Mirkwood?” Morag said, “I haven’t been there in….”_  
_“A very long time,” Gandalf said, “But, you are the only one around here who has. You know those lands, you know how to cut across country, avoid the roads.”_  
_“Who will I be leading?” Morag asked._  
_“A company of thirteen Dwarfs and one Hobbit.”_  
_“A Hobbit, one of those little furry-footed things that think travelling to Frog Morton is adventurous?” Morag said, “You’ve convinced one of those to go to beyond Bree?”_  
_“He is a grandson of the Old Took,” Gandalf said._  
_“What’s the pay?”_  
_“One hundred gold pieces,” Gandalf said, “That’s the minimum. The leader may feel generous depending on if you get them there in a timely manner, no significant injuries.” Morag snorted._  
_“A hundred gold for babysitting fourteen people? You can tell the leader of that company he’s a cheapskate and even a half-decent guide wouldn’t do it for less than two,” she said, moving towards the entrance of the tent._  
_“The leader is Thorin Oakenshield,” Gandalf said, making Morag pause, “I know you know the name, Morag, daughter of Isrid. There could lot more than a hundred gold pieces in it for you.” Morag stood silent in the entrance for a moment._  
_“Fine, I’ll do it. I’ll be ready by sun-up,” she said quietly._

Morag’s eyes drifted open, the stone ceiling slowly coming into focus. She’d dozed off again and had now lost track. Was this the same day or a different one? She sat up and reached for the flagon. It was empty. She groaned and leaned backwards against the wall. She could hear a clanging noise. One of the Dwarfs trying to break out the cells probably. The cell door creaked open. The She-Elf who had been with Legolas stood there. She nodded her head outwards.  
“Come along,” she said gently. Morag stood slowly and walked towards her. The Elf placed a gentle hand on her shoulder and guided her up the steps, away from the dungeons. Morag wondered if she was being taken before Thranduil again but they passed the turn in the passage that lead to the throne. Instead, Morag found herself being taken deeper into the Halls.

Her hands weren’t bound, if she had the strength she could have run. But after four days with only a few mouthfuls of bread had left Morag weakened. She had no hope of incapacitating the She-Elf, let alone running fast enough to escape the Halls. They seemed to walk for hours until finally the Elf grabbed Morag’s shoulder. She opened a large carved door to the left.   
“You will find everything you need in here,” she said, pushing Morag towards it. Morag stepped through the door. It was quickly pulled shut behind her. She looked around, unable to believe her eyes. It was a bathroom. A large sunken bath dominated the centre of the room, filled with steaming water, no doubt brought up from the depths of the mountain the halls were built into. On a chair was a pile of clean clothes, they looked to be about Morag’s size, a towel hung over one arm of the chair.

Morag turned slowly and opened the door just a crack. The She-Elf was still there, standing guard. Morag shut the door and stepped towards the bath. Bending down at the side, she scooped up a handful of the water and sniffed it. It was pure, hot water. No poisons or pollutants. Thranduil was letting her take a bath. It was confusing. This didn’t fit any sort of plan Morag had thought of. But she wasn’t one to look a gift horse in the mouth. She wasted no time in pulling off her old worn boots. Her socks were riddled with holes so she tossed them in the corner. Someone could dispose of them later. Her shirt and pants followed, forming a small pile on the floor. She lowered herself into the bathwater, moaning slightly at the glorious feel of the hot water. Her feet didn’t even touch the bottom. After years of quick baths in cold rivers, a hot bath was another one of those luxuries she missed sometimes. She dipped her head beneath the water to soak her hair. She smiled. She felt revived already. She caught herself laughing as she splashed about in the water, feeling the dirt soak away. She dove under the water, trying to find the bottom but couldn’t before she ran out of air. She re-emerged, drawing in deep breaths to ease the burning in her lungs.

When she finally climbed out, her skin was all wrinkled from too long in the water but she felt happier than she had for a long time. She dried herself off with the towel, giving her hair a quick rub too. Though without a comb (which was in a pocket of her coat) she knew the unruly black curls were going to tangle and knot like there was no tomorrow. Morag picked over the clothes left on the chair. The pants were a little long in the leg but once she had put her boots back on you couldn’t tell. The shirt was soft and comfortable though it did almost reach to her knees. The door opened as she finished tying the laces at the top of the shirt. The She-Elf was waiting for her.  
“The King has arranged for you to be given something to eat,” she said.  
“Alright,” Morag said curiously, heading over to the She-Elf, “You got a name?”  
“Tauriel,” she replied.  
“Right, Tauriel,” Morag said, following Tauriel back into the corridor. The red-head led Morag through a twisting maze of corridors that Morag couldn’t keep track of but it was definitely not back to the dungeons.

Eventually Tauriel stopped by another set of large wooden doors before opening them and gesturing for her to go in.  
Morag stepped into the room to be greeted by a large table, laden with food. She took a few deep breaths, unsure of what to do. After four days of no food, it was almost too much. She moved forward a few cautious steps towards the table. There was fruit, bread, butter and a range of sweet-looking pastries. She didn’t know what to try first. She was fighting the urge to take a bite out of everything in one go.  
“Enjoy your bath?” a deep voice spoke behind her, making her flinch. She spun around. Thranduil stood behind her, the door closed behind him. Gone were his long, flowing robes; a simpler one of red fabric had taken its place. He seemed less imposing in this more casual state of dress.  
“What is all this?” Morag demanded, gesturing at the table.  
“I would say it is food,” Thranduil said, walking past her and sitting down at the table.  
“I know that, but why? Why the bath, why all this food?” Morag spluttered, “I’m a prisoner.”  
“I am not unnaturally cruel,” Thranduil started.  
“Really? Because I’ve heard stories of travellers going into your forests never to be heard from again,” Morag said.  
“Then where do the stories come from?” Thranduil retorted, pouring himself some water from a tall jug. Morag hesitated, watching as Thranduil helped himself to some of the food.  
“Come, sit, eat,” he said, not looking at her. Morag edged closer to the food, keeping the Elven-King in her sight.  
“Why are you doing this?” she asked.  
“You have barely eaten since you arrived,” Thranduil said simply.  
“No, that’s not what I meant,” Morag said, “I mean, the bath, and now this huge amount of food, and you. Since when does a King dine with his prisoners?” Thranduil paused, leaning back in his chair and raising one leg so it rested across the other.  
“I allowed you a bath because one of my guards noted you seemed uncomfortable with the way you smelt,” he said, “As for why I am dining with you…you sniffed your bathwater, Morag.”  
Morag shuddered on the inside at the way his voice sounded when he said her name. There’s power in a name.  
“How did you know?”  
“Tauriel saw you when she checked on you and diligently reported it to me. Why are you so afraid?”  
“Well, I don’t know if you checked recently, but you’re a lot bigger than me…”  
“That is not what I meant,” Thranduil said firmly, “What happened to make you look for poisons in bathwater? What did you do? I am eating with you so you know there is no reason to suspect poison in the food.” Morag said nothing but moved to sit in the chair that he indicated. 

Once sat down, Morag reached out and started grabbing a bit of everything to put on her plate. She broke open a piece of bread, watching the steam rise. It must have been baking whilst she was in her bath. She took a small bite, her eyes closing at the taste. Her stomach roared with hunger as she chewed, dropping the bread back onto her plate. She reached from an apple, taking a bite the second she had swallowed the bread. Then a pastry filled with raspberries. Then some grapes. A cup was placed in front of her. She grabbed it. It was water and she took a big gulp. Thranduil did not say a word. But slowly Morag became aware that he was watching her. She turned her head.  
“What?” she said.  
“What are you?” he asked.  
“Excuse me?”  
“Nothing, a mere curiosity,” he said, turning back to his own plate. Morag shifted in her seat.  
“I want my coat back,” she said.  
“I am aware, and I am considering it,” he said, “Behave, and it will be returned to you.”  
“Do you do this with all your prisoners? Eat with them?” Morag asked.  
“Not all,” Thranduil said simply. His head had turned again, his piercing blue eyes locking onto her gray ones. Morag’s breath caught in her throat. Even when she had a glorious feast laid out before her, the call of Thranduil was stronger. A faint smile crossed the Elven-King’s face. He leaned in a little closer.  
“Morag,” he said slowly, “A curious name for a curious woman. You do not trust us, yet you speak our tongue.” Morag’s eyes glanced down at his mouth at the word ‘tongue’. Thranduil’s smile widened. His hand reached up, tucking her errant curls behind her ear. Morag didn’t flinch at his touch but savoured the heat that shot through her veins at the gentle graze of his fingertips. She knew what she was feeling. Lust. She’d felt it several times before in her life, and had always acted upon it before, let the man know how she felt. But now…Thranduil was different. She couldn’t just come out and say it. Confusion rolled in her brain. What should she do? He was leaning in closer. Her breath started catching, she was starting to get that light-headed feeling and it had nothing to do with lack of food now. His fingertips traced down her jawline. She bit her lower lip.  
“Morag…” he said gently. Her eyes looked down, admiring his neck and the sliver of his toned chest the open neckline of his shirt offered. She didn’t know what to do. This ‘gentle’ approach wasn’t something she had ever experienced before. It had always been rough, carnal pleasure, not a sweet seduction. Seduction! She yanked her head back so hard she fell from the chair. Scrambling to her feet, she backed away.  
“I don’t know what you want,” she growled, “But you’re not getting it that easy.” She turned and headed to the door. Pulling it open, she found Tauriel stood outside of it.  
“I want to go back to my cell,” she said, “Now!”

 

 


	4. Broken

Tauriel had only taken Morag half-way back to the dungeons before another Elf came running up, shouting quickly in their native tongue. Morag caught the words ‘spider’ and ‘many’ out of the Elf’s babbling. Tauriel sighed before shoving Morag towards the newcomer. She barked orders in Elvish for him to take Morag back to the cells. He grabbed Morag’s arm and began leading her back. He wasn’t much of a talker but Morag was glad. After what had happened with Thranduil, her mind was running at a hundred miles a minute and she wouldn’t have been able to keep track of a conversation. She was now almost completely certain the Elven-King had been trying to seduce her, and for a brief moment she had been happy to go along with it. She tried to remember the last time she had been with a man. It was at least eight years, the night before her mother had died. She’d been bored and so had he, stuck on night watch together. Flirtations and teasing had worked its way into their conversation as they passed the time. And after they had been relieved, he’d taken her to a hilltop just outside of camp, making love to her just as the sun was coming up. The funny thing was, she couldn’t even remember his name; a series of complicated jobs had brought them together briefly and after her mother’s death, he had gone on his way, never to come back into her life and she hadn’t thought about him either. Had it really been eight years?

As they began to approach the dungeons, they saw another Elf bringing Thorin up. The two Elves greeted each other, as they walked down the corridor. They began a conversation. Morag rolled her eyes. They were asking about each other’s wives and families. She looked at Thorin, who was glaring at her.  
“Hello Thorin,” she said loudly so he could hear her. They were both Thranduil’s prisoners, at the Elven-King’s beck and call. The least she could do was be civil with him, despite how pig-headed he was. He ignored her greeting, looking her up and down. Morag knew he was taking in the new clothes. It wouldn’t take him long to realise she was cleaner than she should be too.  
“I see being in bed with Thranduil has its benefits,” he snarled. He was quicker than she thought.  
“If you mean no food for four days, then yes,” she replied. Thorin’s frown deepened.  
“I should have told Gandalf to put you back in whatever pit he found you in,” he growled, increasing his pace. That put Morag on edge. She’d tried to be nice, but he didn’t want to play.  
“I was in no pit,” Morag hissed, “I was living a perfectly good life before you and your kin came blundering into it. I had friends, a life that I enjoyed.”  
“You were never meant to be a part of this,” Thorin growled, sidestepping to get closer to Morag. The movement drew the Elves attention as they approached each other.  
“I’m just finishing what my mother started,” Morag said, “And then, as per our contract, I’m gone.”  
“Your mother had no right to tell you…” Morag stepped right in front of Thorin and stood as tall as she could so she looked down on him.  
“She had every right!” Morag yelled, disgusted that he would dare speak of her mother, “You have no right to speak about her!” There was a sharp yank on her arm. The two Elves had worked out that their charges didn’t get along. They were swiftly moved on in the right directions, Morag being pulled towards her cell and Thorin onwards to meet with the Elven-King.

After being shoved into her cell, Morag began kicking the door. She wasn’t sure why. She didn’t know if her rage was aimed at Thorin or Thranduil, all she knew is she wanted to hit something and right now the door bars were the only thing around. She’d have preferred to hit someone, she’d dealt with a lot of adolescent anger by scrapping with the older boys she’d grown up around. Many a night, her mother had scolded her for coming home with scrapped and bloodied knuckles, but Morag had always slept well and calmly after a good tussle. Her next kick at the bars was misaimed, catching her toes on it. She let out a scream of pain and punched the bars, scrapping the top layers of skin off her knuckles with the edge. She screamed again as the blood swelled up. Tears formed at the corners of her eyes as she clutched her knuckles with her other hand, trying to ease the stinging pain. She was even angrier now. Angry at herself for being so stupid. Stupid enough to let her guard down around Thranduil and let him get that close. Stupid enough to get caught by the Elves in the first place. Stupid enough to want to help Thorin even when he paid her back with disdain and insults. She bit her lip to stop herself from sobbing as the sound of racing footsteps came down the stairs. She blinked through the tears as she looked up.

Legolas, the Elven Prince, stood by her door, unlocking it whilst keeping his eyes on her. He opened the door and came in, pulling her closer to the light. He muttered under his breath a few choice names for her as he noted her limp from her injured toes and took a good look at her bloody knuckles. He looked back up the stairs to another Elf who was watching. He shouted an order for something to clean the wound.  
“What did the door do to deserve such treatment?” he asked as he turned back to Morag who was leaning on one leg. She winced at the humour in his voice. She didn’t want to laugh but it felt better than crying. She half-laughed, half-sobbed.  
“Sit,” he commanded as the other Elf appeared and set down what he’d asked for before retreating to the door. Morag sat down on the so-called bed of her cell. The Prince dabbed at her knuckles with a wet cloth. She hissed. Salt-water to clean the wound.  
“Hold that,” he said. She held the cloth in place as he began to loosen her boot and pull it off. Already her two smallest toes were beginning to blacken and bruise.  
“Broken,” she muttered and the Prince nodded his agreement. He began to bind her toes together, to keep them straight so they healed properly. It was uncomfortable, but the only thing that could be done.  
“You know I will have to tell my father about this,” Legolas said as he helped her put her boot back on, “And no doubt he will want to question you.”  
“Oh goody, another chat with Thranduil,” Morag said sarcastically. Legolas said nothing as he bound her knuckles with bandages. He gathered the supplies together.  
“A word of advice,” he said, “If you ever want to leave here, it is best to give him what he wants.”  
“I don’t know what he wants,” Morag said, “Do you?”  
“No, you need to find out,” Legolas said before retreating to the door. Morag watched him go.   
‘If only he were the King,’ she thought to herself, ‘Maybe I wouldn’t be stuck in here.’  
“Hey, hey, Elf! Is she alright?” a voice called from the lower cells. Bofur. Legolas paused and looked down the steps.  
“Scrapped knuckles and two broken toes,” he said firmly, “She will recover.” Morag sighed and leant back against the wall of her cell, ignoring the throbbing of her injuries. Perhaps she did still had one friend in this world, even if it were only Bofur. Truth be told, she didn’t have many disagreements with the other Dwarfs, it was always just her and Thorin who were constantly butting heads, and the rest would just fall in line with him. And who would blame them? Thorin was their King, someone they had known most, if not all of their lives. She was just some human that Gandalf summoned out of seemingly thin air to help guide them through unfamiliar territory to home.

***

Tauriel returned to Morag’s cell door the next morning with breakfast. Some bread and cheese and a flagon of water. After going hungry for four days, a sudden return to hospitality and regular meals was more than welcome. Especially to Morag, who had been up all night, unable to sleep due to the Dwarfs talking about her all night. Some of the things they had said were downright hurtful, spurred on by Thorin. At the start of the night, she’d just been a poor guide who’d gotten them lost. By the time Dwalin and Thorin had finally shut up and gone to sleep, she was the vilest, evilest, most disease-ridden whore to ever walk the earth and deserved nothing less than to be thrown into the Void with Morgoth.

In any other circumstances, Morag would have been able to brush off the comments, maybe even come back with a few of her own. But trapped in a dungeon, with no way out, she’d felt her control, and with it her confidence, slipping away. Hearing herself being taken apart piece by piece by people she thought she knew, it had been soul-destroying. She had been wrong. She didn’t have any friends amongst the Dwarfs at all, and never had it seemed. A numb feeling had crept over her during the night and she had finally admitted to herself that she was in over her head.

She had no idea how she was going to get out of here. Lying awake all night had brought her to one conclusion, Legolas was right. She needed to find out what Thranduil wanted, give it to him, cut her losses and go home. She had to cut ties with the Dwarfs. Trying to protect them hadn’t been working for her, and the rewards were not worth the trouble. She ate her breakfast slowly. Her stomach didn’t seem willing to accept much food and the walls of the cell seemed to be closing in around her.  
“The King wants to see you.” Never had those words been so welcome. Morag rose slowly to her feet, trying to avoid putting too much weight on the foot with the broken toes and limped over to the door. As the door was opened and she stepped out, she could feel Tauriel’s eyes on her.  
“Are you alright?” the She-Elf asked.  
“Fine,” Morag answered. She didn’t fight back as her hands were bound together; trotting alongside Tauriel in silence as they went on their way, looking at her feet. Tauriel paused, making Morag stop too.  
“You are not yourself today,” she said. Morag said nothing. How could she explain to Tauriel what had happened? That thirteen Dwarfs had disassembled her last night, poked at all her flaws and accused her of such vile things such as treachery. There had been no praise for her leading them successfully into the mountains, or for getting them out of Goblin Town when Thorin had overruled her on where they should camp. But as soon as something went wrong, they were happy to blame her. More importantly, she realised, she’d allowed herself to believe they were friends. She’d been foolish. For three days she had stood her ground against the Elven-King, tried to prove herself a loyal friend to them, even when they treated her so poorly; hiding their true purpose for travelling eastwards. She had gone hungry, put herself at the mercy of a supposedly merciless King, and for what. To be called a whore, a traitor and other such nasty names with no way to defend herself. Morag glanced up at Tauriel. She was everything Morag had wanted to be once upon a time. Tall, elegant, beautiful and respected. Morag was none of those. She was short, she moved with the grace of a rock, she was passable to look at and right now, she felt like a smear on the bottom of someone’s boot. King Thranduil was going to be very happy today. Because, today, it was not going to be stubborn, hot-headed little hard ass stood in front of him. It was going to be someone utterly broken. All because of thirteen Dwarfs.


	5. Prisoner No More

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This Chapter Contains Smut, NSFW.

Tauriel finally stopped, having taken Morag deep into the Halls again.   
“This isn’t the throne room,” Morag said.  
“No,” said Tauriel, “The King has many demands on his time, and decided he would speak with you before he goes to the throne room for court.” She nodded to some steps that led downwards.  
“He is waiting,” she said. Morag slowly headed down, her large boots thumping on each step, sending out an echo in the quiet of the chambers. As she came down, she noticed it seemed very quiet and secluded. Clearly, some sort of private chamber of Thranduil’s. Reaching the bottom of the stairs, she saw it was in fact a private bath; a tall-backed chair was on her right with a small table next to it, a small pool directly in front of her behind a large white pillar, carved to look like a tree. She heard hushed voices. She followed them and found Thranduil, dressed in a large robe, in discussion with his son. The King was frowning at what Legolas was saying. He looked up and saw Morag, instantly resting a hand on Legolas’ arm to stop the conversation.  
“We will continue this discussion later,” Thranduil said.  
“But Ada…” Legolas started.  
“Legolas, I said no,” interrupted Thranduil, “Now, go, see to your duties.” Legolas turned on his heel and stormed towards Morag, a look of anger on his face. He skirted around her and disappeared up the stairs.

Morag watched him go before turning back to face Thranduil, her head slightly down.  
“You wanted to see me?” she said, glancing up. Thranduil stood straight, arms folded across his chest.  
“I have received several reports of disturbances amongst my prisoners,” he said, “And you seem to be at the centre of all of them. Tell me, do you mean to test my patience?”  
“No,” Morag answered, shaking her head.  
“Well, you are,” he said, moving towards her, “First, you and Thorin argue on your return to your cells, then you injure yourself in a rage and then there is what happened last night.” Morag’s breathing stopped and she looked up at him properly.  
“Yes, the guards heard every last word and reported it to me this morning,” he said, stopping in front of her, “Tell me, why do you protect those who would call you such vile things? I have tried to be reasonable, I asked simply why you were in my lands. All I received was disrespect and stubbornness as answers. I had to starve you for anything real. I do not wish to be a monster but these are my lands, and I must know who passes through and why. Now, why would you protect these Dwarfs?” Morag looked up him. He was far, far taller than her, by at least a foot. But it wasn’t as intimidating as before. There was a softness to his voice; concern perhaps.  
“My…my name is Morag, daughter of Isrid,” she said, “I was hired by Thorin Oakenshield to escort him and his company eastwards to Erebor, where they plan to reclaim the mountain from Smaug. There, that’s why I was in your forest. It’s everything I know about what they’re doing.”  
“You would cut ties with them?” Thranduil said, “Sell out your friends?”  
“If you heard about half of what they called me last night, you would know they are not my friends,” she replied, “They never were.” He reached out, his hand cupping her chin, making her look at him.  
“Thank you,” he said, “But it was nothing I did not already know.” He released her face and stepped around her.  
“But…I…” Morag stuttered, “How?”  
“The moment they brought Thorin before me, just seconds after you confessed to leading a band of Dwarfs through my forest, I knew why they were here,” Thranduil said as he stepped behind her.  
“So…yesterday, if you already knew…why did you try to seduce me if not for information?” Morag said, trying to make sense of what was happening.  
“My dear Morag,” Thranduil’s breath felt hot on her skin as he spoke. He had bent down so his head was at the same height as hers. Instinctively she tilted her head to the side and closed her eyes. Eru, the way he said her name was sending shivers down her spine.  
“If I had been attempting to seduce you yesterday, we would not be having this conversation,” he said softly. He leant in closer until the tip of his nose touched her head.  
“I would have succeeded,” he whispered, his lips grazing her ear. Morag tried to stifle her whimper of arousal with little success.   
“Would you like that?” Thranduil asked, “Do you want me to seduce you?”  
“No,” Morag replied.  
“I told you before, do not lie to me,” Thranduil whispered in her ear, “Your mouth says one thing, but your body says another.”  
“My body?” Morag said, her breathing hitching. Thranduil’s hand reached up and caressed her throat.  
“Leaving your throat exposed,” he said, “Leaning into me…everything begging for me to touch you.” His hand slipped to her bound wrists, slowly untying them.

The gentle stroke of his fingers made her skin tingle, sending jolts of heat through her body, pooling in her stomach.  
“You are no longer a prisoner, Morag,” he said, pulling her in closer to him, “What do you want?”   
“Let me go, please,” she pleaded as his fingers tightened on her hips. His lips pressed onto the sensitive skin just below her ear. Her arm shot up and clutched at the back of his robe as her knees shook.  
“Tell me what you desire,” Thranduil whispered, “Tell me what will make you come undone.”  
“No,” Morag answered.  
“Do not lie to me, Morag,” he said, his tongue coming out to tease the shell of her ear, “I have seen the lust in your eyes, the same lust I feel. You are not a prisoner anymore, tell me what you want.” Morag’s breath was coming out almost like pants, short and shallow. It wasn’t just her. It seemed the great Elven-King was capable of feeling too, even if most of those feelings were below the waist.  
“Tell me,” Thranduil commanded her, his teeth now grazing where his lips had been just moments before.  
“You,” Morag whispered. In a split second he had pulled her hips backwards. She felt his arousal, long and hard, pressing against her. The movement almost made her fall forward but his arm was already locked around her waist, holding her up.  
“Say it again,” he hissed in her ear.  
“I want you,” Morag replied. The hand that was holding her hips slid down and across her until his long fingers were cupping her through her clothes. Morag let out a moan as they moved against her. She turned her head and was rewarded with his soft lips on hers. His hand moved from between her legs to loosen the ties on her pants. Morag whimpered as he began to move her towards a bench sat hidden behind the great white pillars as he pulled the ties loose. He let go of her and she stumbled forward. Throwing her arms out in front of her, Morag stopped herself from falling onto the bench. There was a soft rustle and Thranduil’s arms encircled her waist. They were bare now; he had removed his robe. She shuddered at the thought of him naked behind her, that strong, powerful body she had glimpsed before now on full view. Only she couldn’t see it, but she could feel it. Thranduil knelt and helped her remove first one boot and then the other before his hands slid up to the waist of her pants.  
“Last time, what do you want?” he said, his fingertips dipping below the waist.  
“You, I want you,” Morag begged, delirious from wanting this Elf. She’d never been with an Elf before, but rumour had it that their longevity made them masters of pleasure. She wanted to see if it was true.  
“Good girl,” Thranduil said, pulling on the pants and bringing them down.

The cool rush of air against her skin brought Morag crashing back to reality. She was about to allow herself to be taken by the Elven-King, on her knees in his private bath. She pushed herself up so she was standing, wincing a little as she put too much weight on her injured foot. She turned around to face Thranduil. She was about to do what Thorin had been accusing her of doing for the last four days, but she was going to do this on her own terms. Thorin could rot in that dungeon for the rest of his life. She had been freed and could still change her mind. But she wasn’t going to let one pig-headed Dwarf stand between her and what she wanted. She let herself look down.

She hadn’t held much hope of Thranduil being small when he was so large but even for his size, he was generously endowed. They were definitely going to have to do this her way. His hands slipped to her hips, his fingers digging into her flesh as her eyes trailed upwards. She took in the flawless skin of his stomach and chest, the perfect shadow from his muscles. So flawless. Her hand trailed up, feeling them ripple and tense beneath her touch until she reached his neck. She pulled him down and kissed him. A vicious, savage kiss, more teeth and tongue than lips, but Thranduil responded in kind. Morag slowly side-stepped, encouraging the Elf to copy her movements until he was stood with his back to the bench. She pushed him backwards so he was sat on the bench before climbing onto him, straddling his lap. His hands instantly went to her hips, clenching into fists in her shirt. Morag rested hers on his broad shoulders, steadying herself. Thranduil nipped at her neck, his hands encouraging her to roll her hips against him. She could feel him, right against her core, hot and ready. He began to pull her shirt up.   
“No!” she said firmly, making him pull away. His eyes were darkened with arousal, like they were completely black.  
“No,” she said, “The shirt stays on.” She pulled the shirt back down quickly, shielding her from his gaze. She felt less exposed and vulnerable straight away. She returned her attention to his mouth, nipping at his lips to bring him back to the matter at hand. He hoisted her up with one hand enough to move himself into place.

She felt his shaft press into her as he began to lower her back down, moaning into her mouth as he did.  
“Morag,” he whispered, giving her the final gentle push. Morag moaned against him as he slipped inside her. Morag gasped for breath as he took his hands away. It had been years since she’d felt the bliss of being entered and now she had control of how much she took. His large member was stretching her as she slowly continued to slide down. She bit her lip to stifle cries of pleasure. The feeling of being filled was one she had missed and it was only growing as she took more of him in. Finally she could take no more, having made it all the way down so she could feel his hot skin against hers. Thranduil sat up straight, his hands finding their way into her black curls.  
“Morag,” he whispered again as she gripped his shoulders, slowly raising herself a little before dropping back down.

A deep groan rumbled out of the Elven-King’s throat. Pressed against him, Morag felt it vibrate throughout her entire being. She began to raise herself again and one hand began to trace up her thigh. He pushed her back down onto him this time. He took control of the pace, helping her but never taking her deeper than she allowed him. Her arms wound around his neck as he got her into a steady rhythm on his lap. He muttered to her in Elvish but Morag was in too deep to hear what he was saying. All she could do was feel. Feel his length teasing her insides, feel that little bundle of nerves between her legs rubbing on his pelvic bone, feel the intense heat and pressure building inside her, feel his soft skin against hers, his hand in her hair, his breath on her skin.  
“Ah,” she found herself moaning, “Thranduil.” He responded with whispers of her name against her neck and shoulder. Her inner muscles tightened, she was so close, so close to release. So close, so close, so… She came with a wail, quickly smothered by his mouth. Her fingernails dug into his shoulders as she rode her release out on him, his hands guiding her. The King moaned repeatedly, feeling her insides clench and release him until he could take no more. Using his strength, he pulled her off, his hips jerking sporadically as he released onto her stomach.

Her forehead, now drenched with sweat, rested against his cheek, her hands clinging to his hair. Her eyes felt heavy. She hadn’t slept, she felt the warm glow that came with intimacy on her skin, Thranduil’s hot seed on her belly and his arms wrapped around her. She felt safer right there than she had in a long time.  
“Sleep,” Thranduil’s voice came through the haze, “Sleep.”   
“Yeah,” Morag mumbled, her eyes drifting closed, “Sleep is good.”


	6. Stones

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some smut, NSFW

_Morag looked up at the clear blue sky. Laid out on the rock, under the warm sunshine, she could almost forget where she was going. There was a faint smell of pipe weed in the air that wafted up from where the Dwarfs were setting up camp below her. She could hear their deep, gruff voices talking to each other. Closing her eyes, she could pin point where each one was. Thorin was with Gandalf, talking about the road ahead. Bifur, Bofur and Bombur were preparing dinner. Dwalin and Nori were prepping firewood. Balin was with Bilbo, the Hobbit, talking with Gloin. Oin and Dori were scouring for medicinal herbs nearby. But that was it. She couldn’t hear the three youngest Dwarfs. She sat up and strained to hear a little further. Nope, wherever they were, Fili, Kili and little Ori were nowhere close. She heaved herself up with a sigh to go off in search. If Fili and Kili had got Ori stuck up another tree, she was going to shove her sword somewhere unmentionable._

_She found their tracks leading southwards down the river they were camping by. Fili and Kili were leading the way, Ori following close behind. Poor Ori. He’d never left his mother before and his brothers were often distracted by their quest. He was a little gullible and Fili and Kili knew it. So far, in just over a week, Morag had fetched Ori out of three trees, a rabbit trap and from the bottom of a pit trap._  
_“Go on,” she heard Fili say, “It’ll be fun.”_  
_“I don’t know,” Ori replied sounding nervous._  
_“It’ll be fine, we’ll be right behind you,” Kili said. Morag increased her pace. She wasn’t going to let Thorin’s nephews carry out whatever prank they had planned. The ground was beginning to rise a little. Running to the top, she found the three young Dwarfs looking over where the river dropped straight down. Ori was stood in the middle, his cloak, journal and slingshot laying in a pile behind him. Fili and Kili were on either side._  
_“Go on, Ori, sink or swim!” Fili shouted, giving Ori a push. Ori squealed as he was pushed over the edge, his arms flapping wildly as if he could fly before plummeting down and out of sight._  
_“Ori!” Morag cried, rushing forwards and almost knocking Fili and Kili in themselves. She looked over the edge but saw no sign of Ori resurfacing in the water below.  
“Shit,” she muttered, standing straight. She pulled off her coat, throwing down her weaponry and anything else she didn’t want getting wet._

_She jumped off the cliff, diving into the cold, dark water below. She resurfaced with a sharp gasp, taking a deep breath before diving back down. She could see Ori floating just over the bottom of the pool, struggling. She kicked her legs, forcing herself down. Scooping her arms under his, she straightened up and kicked again. Their heads broke the surface in time for her to hear panicked voices from the Dwarfs. Ori was still struggling, occasionally pulling them both back under the water as Morag tried to get to the side. With a great deal of effort, they made it. Dwalin pulled Ori onto the bank by the collar of his tunic. Bofur reached out and pulled Morag out by her arm. Once on dry land, Morag collapsed onto the ground. Ori was heavier than he looked._  
_“What on earth did you think you were doing?!” Thorin’s angry voice boomed around the gathered group, “Morag, I’m talking to you!” Morag sat up straight._  
_“Excuse me?” she said, “I think I was saving Ori’s life.”_  
_“We hired you to be a guide, not to go disappearing when we make camp,” Thorin said harshly, “You should have been with Gandalf and I.”_  
_“You made it abundantly clear that you didn’t want my help until we were over the mountains,” Morag replied, climbing to her feet, “So excuse me if I saved Ori…again. Please note, I’m not charging extra for saving lives because of your nephews stupidity.”_  
_“Hey, we were just about to jump in after him,” Fili argued._  
_“Yeah, standing there staring, still fully clothed,“ Morag said, “Obviously you were just about to go in after him.” She turned to Thorin._  
_“Why am I getting the blame? They’re the ones that pushed Ori in,” she said, “If I hadn’t have followed, Ori could have drowned.”_  
_“And I would have punished them for such a stupid mistake,” Thorin said._  
_“Yeah, just like you did when they left Ori hanging upside down from a rabbit trap yesterday, or up that tree the day before that,” Morag muttered._  
_“You are here to get us to the mountain!” Thorin shouted, “I am responsible for their lives! Not you!” He pointed behind him._  
_“Go back to camp until I ask for your services,” he snapped. Morag looked him right in the eye for a moment before grabbing her coat from Nori and stomping off. The only satisfaction she got was that no sooner was she out of sight that Thorin started berating Fili and Kili for their stupidity._

_Morag returned to her rock. It was catching the last remaining sunshine of the day and the best place to dry off. She threw her coat down on the ground before sitting, cross-legged. When it came to Thorin, it appeared she could do no right. Everything she did was wrong. All she had done so far was try to help but he wouldn’t see it that way. He was paranoid that she was going to try to take over the group for some reason that only occurred to him. He refused to believe she had no interest in Erebor’s treasure beyond her pay. She couldn’t even make conversation with the other Dwarfs without him listening in._  
_“Missing something?” a voice drew her from her thoughts. She looked up to see Nori stood in front of her. She looked around._  
_“Thorin’s still yelling at Fili and Kili,” he said, holding out a piece of parchment. Morag stared at it for a moment before realising what it was. Her contract with Thorin. She made to grab it only for Nori to pull it away._  
_“Give it back!” she demanded, “I saved your brother’s life.”_  
_“Ori can swim well enough,” Nori said dismissively, “He probably just forgot for a moment. You know, I read this.” He dangled the contract over Morag’s head._  
_“You have quite the dirty little secret, don’t you?” Nori teased, “Relax, Morag, I won’t tell anyone. So long as you make it worth my while.”_  
_“Don’t see how I can,” Morag said, “If you’ve read that contract, you know I won’t get paid until you get to the mountain and even then it’s a pittance.”_  
_“I’m not thinking money,” Nori answered._  
_“Then what?”_  
_“I need you to occasionally look the other way,” Nori said._  
_“You mean when you steal things?”_  
_“More like…acquire without the owner’s knowledge,” Nori grinned, “So, do we have a deal?” He held out a hand. Morag stared at it for a moment before taking it with her own. They shook and Morag snatched the contract back with her free hand._  
_“Pleasure doing business with you,” Nori said before turning and leaving._

When Morag opened her eyes, she had no idea where she was. It wasn’t her cell that was for sure. The ceiling above her was stone carved into tree branches, painted with gold and silver leaves. The bed she was laying on was soft, covered in warm blankets. She turned her head to the side and sniffed. Thranduil. She was in his bed. It all came rushing back to her; his voice in her ear, his lips on her skin, his shaft pressing in her. She moved slightly and a sting between her legs reminded her that it was real. She hissed in pain as she rolled onto her side. Her pants and boots were sat on a chair on the other side of the room. She sat up slowly, pleased to see that she was still dressed in the soft shirt she’d been given the day before. There were two staircases, one on either side of the room. She could hear running water coming from the one on the right. She headed down.

As she reached the bottom, she recognised where she was. Thranduil’s private bath. The running water was probably him bathing. She thought briefly about turning back, but part of her wanted to go look at him, to see the Elven-King in all his glory; she hadn’t had much opportunity to get a good look at all of him before. She slowly moved forward before peeking around the side of the steps. He was in the pool, a small panel in the wall had been opened, allowing fresh water to pour in. The King stood beneath it, his eyes closed, the water trickling down his muscled back and legs. Morag smiled, as she took him in, from his broad shoulders that were blanketed by his platinum hair to his perfectly round buttocks. Damn if that wasn’t a perfect butt.  
“I know you are there,” he said, making Morag back up a step. He turned to face her. Morag felt her face burn as she took in his front. The water only came mid-way up his thighs so everything was on show. Even flaccid, he was an impressive size.  
“Do not be shy,” he said, walking towards the edge of the pool and Morag. She climbed down the last few steps to stand at the edge of the pool.  
“I’m surprised I’m not back in the dungeon,” she said as the Elven-King reached her, looking up at her.  
“I told you, you are no longer my prisoner,” Thranduil replied, “You told me what I wanted to know, and I freed you.”  
“So, if I’m not a prisoner, what am I?” Morag asked.  
“I know you wish to leave, but I would not allow you to go whilst your foot is still injured,” he answered, looking at the bandages on her injured toes, “So stay, whilst your injuries heal.”  
“As what? Your lover?”  
“My guest,” Thranduil said simply, “Though if that entails you remaining here, in my bed, for the time being, I would not complain.” Morag chuckled as she looked down at him and leant slightly to one side. The sting from earlier returned, making her wince.  
“Was I too rough with you, my dear Morag?” Thranduil asked, smiling, “Would you like me to soothe the pain?” His hands skimmed up her thighs, pushing the shirt up slowly until he could see her sex. He lent forward and placed his lips on her. Morag moaned as his tongue began to tease her clit, she moved one hand to his head, tangling her fingers in his damp hair. Warmth rushed downwards, easing the sting a little.  
“Better?” he whispered against her skin.  
“Yes,” Morag sighed, her mind clouding with pleasure as he returned to his ministrations.  
“Will you stay?” he asked, pulling away.  
“Yes,” Morag answered without thinking.  
“Good,” Thranduil said, pulling her down until she was sat on the edge of the pool, her legs over his hips. He kissed her, his tongue instantly seeking hers. Morag’s hands went to his neck, her fingernails scratching him a little in anticipation. Thranduil pulled back, chuckling a little.  
“Not yet,” he said, “I have much to do today. Later, when you have had more rest. Go on, back to bed with you. You will need it.” Morag looked him in the eye. He was trying to be humorous with her, his gaze was softer than it had been in the past few days. She wanted to know what he was thinking at that moment, what his reasons for doing what he was doing; releasing her from his prison, inviting her to stay, having sex with her. He didn’t seem the kind to do anything without good reason, he was a King after all.  
“I can see you have questions for me,” he said, tucking a curl behind her ear, “They can wait for my return. I have some of my own for you as well.” Morag blanched at that. Why did she have the sinking feeling he was going to go looking under stones she rather remained unturned?


	7. Out of the Frying Pan

Morag hated being bored. Thranduil had been gone for hours. She’d napped as much as she could before looking around the chambers. She had found some books but quickly learnt they were far beyond her ability to read Elvish. Further exploration had revealed only two ways in and out, both guarded by Thranduil’s soldiers, their faces hidden behind chainmail. She’d also discovered a large, elaborate painting of a She-Elf up the stairs leading away from the bed chamber. Morag had stared at it for a long time, looking for a name or any clue to who it was but found nothing. After that, she had wandered around the chambers before sitting on the steps that led to the private bath. From where she sat, right on the curve of the steps, she could see both ways in. Now she just had to wait, but it wasn’t coming easily. She was restless from Thranduil’s teasing earlier. She wanted him to be there right this instant, even if it was just to take the edge off. Damn him!  
Morag rubbed her face with her hands. What had she got herself into? ‘In bed with the Elven-King,’ her mind replied. And she had no idea how she was going to get out. She began to get the sinking feeling she had jumped out of the frying pan and into the fire. It was all beginning to sink in. She’d backed out of a job to be freed. Now Thranduil had convinced her to stay for a while, as his lover. Morag had always been able to stand her ground, fight to do things her way and with very little effort, Thranduil had got her agreeing to do something his way. Fuck! What was worse was she had enjoyed it and was actually waiting for him to come back for round two. What had he done to her? She had never waited on a man before, and here she was, desperately trying to watch two entrances for him.

She groaned, telling herself she should be doing something else with her time, but what? She was a King’s guest, what did King’s guests do all day? If she had been back with Halbarad and the others, she would have had jobs to do; hunting, fetching firewood, guard duty. Here, she had nothing to do and she hated it. She heard footsteps approaching and stood up. Legolas, the Elven Prince, appeared, and his mood had apparently not improved since this morning. He trotted down the steps on the other side of the bath, a scowl marred his fair features. Morag stood up as straight as she could. He strode across the room and up the steps towards her.  
“My father thought you might be bored,” he said. His tone was far harsher than Morag had ever heard it before. He was his father’s son after all. He pushed a book into her hands.  
“You do know how to read, do you not?” he asked.  
“Yes,” Morag replied, a little annoyed at the accusation. Legolas turned and began to leave. Morag’s curiosity got the better of her.  
“Who is she?” she asked. Legolas paused and turned to face her.  
“The She-Elf in the painting?” she clarified, pointing behind her towards the bed chamber.  
“My mother,” he answered.  
“What happened to her?” Her next question caught him half-turned away.  
“Orcs,” he said, still facing away, “When I was a child, we lived in the south, but as the shadow grew, we looked to move north. My father sent my mother and I with a group and there was an ambush waiting for us. She died, defending me.” He went quiet for a moment before turning back and marching up to Morag, making her back into the wall.  
“My mother was beloved by everyone who met her,” he said, looking down at her, “She was a great Queen and my father loved her. You could never replace her.”  
“I’m not trying to,” Morag said, pushing back off the wall to go toe-to-toe with the Elf.  
“Liar,” Legolas snarled, “Since you arrived, my father has changed.”  
“That’s not my fault,” Morag countered.  
“Stop lying!” Legolas yelled.  
“I’m not lying!” Morag shouted back. She looked him straight in the eye. The silence stretched out between them as they fought not to be the one to blink. Legolas turned away first with a huff, leaving back the way he came. Morag sank back onto the step, the book clutched in her hands and her eyes closed. She really had jumped out of the frying pan and into the fire. In the dungeons, Legolas had treated her well, been kind even. Now, he viewed her with suspicion.

He thought she was scheming, trying to make her way into a position of power. That’s not what she wanted. She didn’t want a crown, she didn’t want a position; she just wanted to go home. She looked down at the book that rested in her lap and opened it. It was a record of the Last Alliance, when the Elves and Men had marched on Mordor, written in the Common Tongue. She knew that story well enough and put the book down on the step. She instead stood up and went to look at the painting of the late Queen. She could see where Legolas had inherited some of his features. His rounder face, his slighter build, his eyes. Had Thranduil truly loved her? It was common knowledge that Elves experienced only one true great love in their lifetime. But if the Queen had been Thranduil’s great love, he wouldn’t have brought Morag into his bed. Legolas’ little outburst had been the only mention made of her as far as Morag could remember. There was something else there, she just knew it.

She was still staring at the painting, noting how Legolas had his mother’s ear shape too when Thranduil returned.  
“I find it impossible to believe you have read that entire book already,” his voice made her jump. She looked at him.  
“I know what happened at that battle,” she said, “But I appreciate the thought.”  
“I see you have found something else to occupy yourself,” Thranduil continued, moving to stand beside her.  
“I found it earlier,” Morag said, “And Legolas gave me plenty to think about when I asked about her.”  
“Yes, he told me,” Thranduil said, “He apologises for his outburst.”  
“He said she died defending him,” she continued.  
“Him, and dozens of our people,” he said, looking up at the painting, “She had never held a blade before in her life, but she took one up to defend our son.”  
“How old was Legolas?”  
“He was in his fourth summer,” Thranduil answered quietly, “Barely more than an infant. He does not really remember her, just little things like her smile, a song she used to sing to him…and a greatly romanticised vision of our marriage.” Morag looked sideways at Thranduil and raised an eyebrow. Thranduil was gazing at the painting, like he was looking back into the past. His eyes were glassy and unfocussed.  
“We did not marry for love,” he said, “My father wanted to strengthen the ties between ourselves and Lothlorien. Before he lost his life, he struck a deal with a nobleman for me to marry his daughter. He cared not that I wished to marry another. After my fathers death, I honoured his wish, even though it meant having to say farewell to the one I loved. Eventually, I watched her marry another, and the day I lost my wife, I said farewell to her again. She chose to move south with her husband and her children, to Lothlorien. She said she could not bare to see me with another.”  
“I know how she feels,” Morag muttered without thinking. She glanced sideways again and saw that Thranduil was looking at her with curiousity. She hesitated. He had opened up to her. She tried to find a reason not to reciprocate but came up empty. He just seemed to make her say things without thinking about it first. She was going to be here for a while, she might as well be open with him about something.  
“My first love,” she said, “I grew up with him, and he was my first lover when I was sixteen. I was infatuated with him, completely head over heels. And he broke my heart. Told me I wasn’t the kind of girl he could marry, that I was just a bit of fun. He pushed me away and then I watched him marry someone else, and have a son.”  
“Does he have a name?”  
“Arathorn,” Morag said, “His name was Arathorn.”  
“Am I the first since him?” Morag laughed. She wanted off this subject. Thinking about Arathorn made her uncomfortable even after all those years.  
“What? No, no, there have been others,” she said, “I’m a lot older than you think.” She turned and began to walk back towards the bed chamber.  
“How many?” Thranduil called after her. She smiled, she could hear the humour in his voice.   
“Including you and Arathorn, six,” she said, turning to look at him, “But you’re the first in eight years.” She could see Thranduil frowning as he tried to work it out. Eventually, he seemed to give up.  
“How old are you?” he asked.  
“Guess,” Morag said, “We’ll make it a game. Guess How Old Morag Is.”  
“Thirty,” Thranduil said.  
“Ohh, not even close,” Morag said, grinning.  
“Thirty Five,” Thranduil tried again, smiling as if he were certain he had the right answer.  
“No, still cold,” she said. Thranduil tilted his head to one side.  
“Forty.”  
“Getting warmer.”  
“Forty five,” he said firmly.  
“I’ll give you a hint,” Morag said, “You need to add at least another twenty onto that.” Thranduil looked completely confused.  
“I’m sixty-eight,” Morag said, seating herself on the bed.  
“How?” Thranduil said, staring at her for a moment before his face cleared of confusion, “You are one of the Dúnedain, a descendant of Numenor! Blessed with long life.”  
“Well done,” Morag said smiling, “My mother could trace her ancestry all the way back to Tar-Míriel, who should have been Queen.”  
“Finally, something that makes sense,” Thranduil said, a charming smile spreading across his face, “Your knowledge of our language confounded me from the moment you arrived. I never considered you were a daughter of Kings.” Morag fidgeted under his gaze. Something had changed. Before he’d looked at her with lust, something she understood and could deal with. But this look of awe and respect, it made her feel like she had been perched on some high pedestal and was about to fall off.  
“Kind of,” she said quickly, “My father wasn’t one of us.” She didn’t want to get too comfortable around him, it would make her relaxed and let her guard down.

Thranduil opened his mouth to say something when the sound of armour clinking came from down the stairs. A guard appeared. He spoke in Elvish to Thranduil, who replied, taking the focus off Morag. She quickly moved away from the bed. The guard left and moments later, two more Elves came in, carrying trays of food and a carafe of wine. Thranduil directed them to put the food and wine down on a table. They obeyed and quickly left. Thranduil turned back to bed, clearly expecting to see Morag still sat there and seemed surprised to see her stood close to him.  
“Are you hungry?” he asked.  
“Kind of,” Morag said, her eyes looking down at his feet before trailing slowly upwards. He had a wonderful body hidden under those clothes, she could remember every detail, every shadow from that morning. Thranduil’s body shifted as she raised a hand to rest on his chest. His hand came up to cover hers, the other hand moving to her head.  
“Do you wish to finish what we started this morning?” he asked, his head lowering. Morag didn’t answer. She had had enough of talking. She reached up and kissed him. This was good, because this wasn’t talking, this wasn’t asking questions about her past or his. Talking about past lovers would only lead to bad things. She freed her hand from his and began to undo the clasp on his long silver robe as Thranduil nipped at her lower lip, his eyes closed. Her fingers traced over his neck as she pushed the robe off. This was all their relationship should be about: sex, not feelings. Feelings got hurt, and Morag had had enough of that for one lifetime already.


	8. And Into The Fire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Smut, NSFW

As much as she wanted to dislike him, Morag had to admit Thranduil had more charm than anyone should possess, ever. She leaned back against the large soft pillows and watched. The King lay across the bed on his side, a blanket draped across his naked hips as he picked at the fruit on the plate that lay between them. Their clothes lay scattered around the room save for Morag’s shirt which she insisted on keeping on.  
“Have you ever tried one of these?” he asked, holding up a piece to her. Morag blinked for a moment, suddenly pulled from her thoughts. She glanced down at the slice of red fruit he held.  
“No, I don’t think I have,” she said. Thranduil reached forward and fed her the piece of fruit, his thumb grazing her lower lip. Morag closed her eyes as she chewed before gently licking her lower lip where he’d touched her. The fruit was delicious. She made a soft noise of approval and opened her eyes. Thranduil was looking at her closely, a sly smile on his face.  
“And?” he said.  
“Delicious,” Morag replied. Thranduil gave another small smile before turning back to the plate.

Morag watched as he played with the food on the plate, his gaze fixed on the bed spread. He was distracted. She reached over and picked up a few grapes. Popping one into her mouth, she looked at him. He was more than charming, he was devastatingly beautiful. From his high cheekbones and his blue eyes down to his mouth that had wrought so much pleasure upon her and his elegant neck that was marred by a bite-mark courtesy of Morag’s most recent orgasm. Morag sighed as her mind raced over their most recent bout. She wouldn’t call it making love, even in her head; instead she thought it closer to waging war with each other, a battle for dominance. Still the Elven King stared at the bed spread.  
Morag took one of the grapes and threw it at his head. It bounced off his temple and onto the floor.  
“Do not throw food at me,” he said, glancing up at her briefly before looking back at the plate. She threw another.  
“Morag,” he warned. Morag giggled a little and threw a third one. The Elven King lunged for her, swiftly wrestling her to the mattress and pinning her wrists above her head.   
“What do you want?” he demanded.  
“You looked too serious,” she said, “What’s wrong?” He bent down and kissed her instead of answering, releasing one of her wrists to caress her cheek. He pulled back and lay down beside her, staring at the ceiling.  
“Legolas came to me with a request this morning,” he said. Morag sat up and looked at him.  
“I have been expecting it for a while,” he continued, “But I still found myself surprised.”  
“What did he ask?”  
“He wishes to marry,” Thranduil said, “But his choice…I cannot allow it. She is a Silvan Elf.”  
“Tauriel?” Morag asked.  
“Yes,” Thranduil said, “I want Legolas to marry for love, but at the same time, as King, it is my duty to ensure he has a strong match.” He rubbed his eyes and groaned in exasperation.  
“Why can’t he marry Tauriel?”  
“He…he comes from a pure royal bloodline,” Thranduil explained, “To allow him to marry a Silvan Elf, even one such as Tauriel would…It would end the purity of a line that has endured wars and dragons.”  
“That is the biggest load of crap I have ever heard,” Morag said bluntly.  
“Try to understand this from where I am,” Thranduil said, “My father…”  
“Oh, I do understand the obsession some people have with blood purity,” Morag said, “I told you, my father wasn’t one of the Dúnedain and there were those who looked down on me for it.”  
“I want to be a good father,” Thranduil mused, “But I cannot stop being the King just because my son is involved.”  
“So, you would never allow a Sindarin and a Silvan Elf to marry?”  
“No, that is not what I mean,” Thranduil said, shaking his head. He groaned and rubbed his eyes again.  
“I do not wish to deny to Legolas what my father denied to me,” he said, “I want Legolas to experience true love.” He turned his head to look at Morag.  
“Did your father ever disapprove of any of your lovers?” he asked.  
“No,” Morag said, simply.  
“Not one?”  
“Kind of hard to disapprove of your daughter’s lovers when you only stick around long enough to get her mother pregnant with her,” Morag explained. Thranduil pulled on her arms, pulling her down to lay at his side. He thought she needed comforting, or perhaps he needed to feel like she needed him. Either way, she allowed him to hold her.  
“He was around for three days, slept with my mother and promptly walked right back out her life” she continued, “He didn’t even know I existed.”  
“Did you ever go looking for him?” Thranduil asked.  
“No, he found me, by accident,” Morag said, resting her head on his shoulder, “Turns out I didn’t miss out on much.”  
“I am sorry,” Thranduil said softly, turning his head to look at her.  
“Don’t be,” she said, “I’m not. But I am sorry about throwing fruit at your head.”  
“Do not apologise,” he said, “It was….amusing.”  
“Oh really?” Morag said, propping herself up. She reached for the plate and grabbed another handful of fruit.  
“Have some fruit, your majesty,” she laughed, throwing a piece down at him. Thranduil swatted it away.  
“Have another,” Morag said, throwing a grape at him. Thranduil swiped at it, knocking it away. He sat up and pulled her into his embrace as he smiled a little.  
“Have another one,” she said as tears of laughter leaked out of her eyes, holding up one hand with a slice of the red fruit he’d offered her earlier. He paused for a moment before leaning in to take the fruit from her fingers with his mouth.

Morag’s breath caught in her throat as his lips closed around her fingertips, his tongue gently lapping the juice off her fingers. He swallowed and licked his lips, looking intently at hers before dragging his gaze to her eyes. He leaned in and tasted her lips, his hands moving to the small of her back, pulling her onto his lap. He tilted his head, his tongue darting out to taste her as he gathered her shirt up in his hands. He groaned as his fingertips grazed the soft skin above her backside.  
“Ready to go again?” Morag asked.  
“With you, always,” he whispered back before kissing her again. He lifted her up, discarding the blanket that was wrapped around him and pulled her closer. Morag reached down, gently stroking his length, making Thranduil moan loudly. He thrust upwards slightly at her touch. She gripped him tightly, guiding him to her core before lowering herself. She moaned happily as she sank down onto him. Thranduil groaned as she clenched tightly around him, marvelling at her energy as she set the rhythm. This was the third time today; the second in the space of a few hours. But he couldn’t get enough of her.

In one fluid motion he rolled over so she was pinned beneath him as he rocked against her, one hand sliding down to tease the bundle of nerves at her centre. She gasped and bit at his neck. He growled in response. She began to thrust against him, meeting each one of his. She pushed off the bed, rolling them over. Waging war indeed. Now, the Elven-King was flat on his back with her on top, driving him in oblivion. She anchored herself by holding onto his shoulders, her fingers digging in.   
“Fuck,” she ground out after Thranduil raised his hips, hitting her sweet spot. His hands gripped her hips firmly and repeated the motion again and again, feeling her tighten. She began to cry out, half in pleasure, half in pain from where his fingers were digging into her soft curves. Thranduil’s groans grew louder beneath her until he sat up, wrapping his arms around her. Silence descended over the chamber as Morag’s head was thrown backwards and she pulsed around him. Thranduil’s eyes closed as he slowed his thrusts to draw out her orgasm. He felt her forehead touch his. He held her close and gave a few more shallow, rushed thrusts before pulling out of her. He thrust upwards once more, spilling his seed onto her stomach before lying back onto the bed.

Morag rolled off him, basking in the afterglow as the Elven-Kings breathing remained shallow.   
“I think that’s enough for today,” she said, “That was a…” She looked over at Thranduil. His eyes were closed, his breathing even, he looked to be asleep.  
“What the…” she started. Thranduil’s eyes flew open and he took a sharp breath.  
“No, no, no…” she said, “Go back to sleep.” His eyes drifted closed again. Morag rolled onto her knees.  
“Where are you going?” he asked, his hand reaching out to her.  
“I’m going to clean up,” she said, “Somebody has spilt something on me…three times.” Thranduil grinned sleepily. Morag climbed off the bed, hissing slightly as her muscles protested standing up. A sleepy laugh came from the Elven-King. Morag rolled her eyes at his arrogance. Spotting one of the grapes from earlier, she scooped it up. She paused at the top of the stairs and turned around. Thranduil lay spread-eagled across the bed. She took aim and threw it. It bounced off his stomach, making him grunt before it disappeared on the other side of the bed.

Morag’s smile fell as she went down the steps. He was making her open up again, this time about her father. She couldn’t stop talking around him, and it made her uneasy when she stopped. Charming, beautiful, the Elven-King was deadly to her. She needed to stop him from drawing her further in, but at the same time, she didn’t want to. She’d never felt so confused before, always been so sure about what she was doing. She pulled off her shirt and dropped it on the side of the pool. Bending down, she found the water was warm so she slid straight in, dipping her head under the water. She broke the surface and lent against the side, thinking about that morning.

Had it really been less than a day? Her muscles confirmed, yes, she had had sex with the Elf three times in one day. Three times she’d come, three times he’d spilt himself upon her belly. She’d never done that before. Twice maybe, but that was the most in one day. She was going to sleep well tonight, despite her napping earlier.  
“Morag,” she heard a voice whisper. Her eyes opened. Had she imagined that? It didn’t sound like Thranduil.  
“Morag!” the voice was closer. She turned around. She almost screamed to find Bilbo, the Hobbit, stood at the edge of the poll. She quickly covered herself with her arms.  
“What are you doing here?” she whispered, looking up towards the steps to see if Thranduil was coming.  
“I saw you being brought before the Elven King, and when you weren’t brought back to the dungeons, I…” Bilbo trailed off, “Why are you naked?”  
“Because I’m having a bath, where have you been?”  
“I’m a burglar,” Bilbo said, “I have a plan to get the Dwarves out. There’s a feast next week, I’m going to sneak them out while the Elves are celebrating.”  
“How?”  
“That’s the surprise,” Bilbo said, “Get to the cellars on that night as the stars come out, and we’ll all escape.”   
“Bilbo…how have you been able to avoid the guards?” Morag asked.  
“There are some passages that are too small for the Elves to use,” Bilbo said, “Look!” He pointed behind him to a small gap in the wall.  
“There’s a small path there that leads back down to the dungeons, no guards,” he explained, “You should just be able to fit down it. Remember, the fest night, next week.” And with that, he disappeared through the gap. Leaving Morag in the pool, staring after him. A way out. She had a chance to get away from the King, but did she want to go? And, more importantly, would he let her go?


	9. Scars

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Smut and plenty of it in this chapter, so NSFW warning in place. Memories in italics.

_Morag shuddered at the cold hands on her bare back._  
_“Forgive me,” Elrond said quietly. Morag nodded as she felt his fingers trace over her back._  
_“They will never fully heal,” he said, “You do know that?”_  
_“After carrying them for sixty years, yeah, I know,” Morag said._  
_“If only I knew what dark art those Orcs used…” Elrond mused as he pulled her shirt down._  
_“Hey, I was half-dead the last time I came over that bridge,” Morag said, pulling her hair out of her shirt and nodding her head towards the window, “The fact that I walked over it, sixty years later, under my own power with nothing more serious than a twisted ankle, I would call that a rousing success story.”_  
_“That night will remain in my memory forever,” Elrond said, “I heard your mother crying before anything else. She refused to allow anyone to see to her until she knew you were going to live. Do you remember?”_  
_“I remember Elladen carrying me, the sound of the river passing underneath me,” Morag said, “But before that…it’s patchy. I remember screaming…and pain. I remember a question. Where is he?”_  
_“You could have suffered a lot worse,” Elrond said, “Your memory of that night could have been intact.”_  
_“Well, isn’t it good I was a forgetful child?” Morag laughed, climbing off the bed she had been sat on._

_Elrond smiled half-heartedly at Morag attempting to make light of that time in her life. As much as she couldn’t remember the night she had been brought to Rivendell for the first time, she knew Elrond could. She’d seen the drawings that had been made of her injuries. They were being used to educate a new batch of healers; she was an example on how the correct care could bring even a mortal life back from the brink of death. Her recovery had taken months, she had spent the whole of that winter and most of the spring in Rivendell until Lord Elrond had been satisfied she would be able to live well outside of his care. Morag had never forgotten her time there but had never had the opportunity to return until now. She had of course, met up with Elladen and Elrohir again as an adult. They were frequent hunting companions of her people._  
_“Is…” she started before hesitating. Elrond looked up from the journal he was writing a few notes in._  
_“Morag?”_  
_“Is he here? Is he well?” she asked. Elrond put down his pen. He knew whom she was asking about._  
_“Morag, he is not your son,” he said, firmly, “You cannot…”_  
_“I don’t need to talk to him, I just want to see him,” she said._  
_“Arathorn…”_  
_“Is dead,” Morag finished Elrond’s sentence for him, “What we had, ended. Over half a century ago. But that boy…one day, he will be the leader of my people. If I can see him, see that he is well, I can take that back to them. Give them hope.” Elrond’s body relaxed a little._  
_“Hope,” he said, “You know we named him that. Estel (Hope).”_  
_“An appropriate name,” Morag said, “Please, Elrond. He doesn’t have to see me…”_  
_“You do not have to beg anymore,” he replied softly, “Come, I will let you see him. But only for a moment.”_  
_“That’s all I need.”_

_She followed Elrond through his house and out on to a terrace overlooking the gardens. Elrond paused before looking at Morag and pointing down. As quietly as she could, she crept up to railing and looked down. Sat at a round stone table was a small dark-haired boy, learning his letters on a wax tablet._  
_“Estel,” a female voice called, “Man cerig? (What are you doing?)”_  
_“Teithan (I write),” the child replied. A She-Elf, with long dark hair, appeared from underneath where Morag stood. She bent over to see his work before tutting._  
_“I shall have to speak with Lord Elrond,” she said, reverting to the Common Tongue, “I see his sons have been teaching you profanities again.” Morag couldn’t help but smile as the boy fought laughter with little success. Elrond rolled his eyes next to her and shook his head. He indicated to Morag that they should leave._  
_“Does that satisfy you?” he asked as they re-entered the house._  
_“Yes, he is alive, well, and every inch his father’s son,” she replied._  
_“Do you ever wish it had been you whom Arathorn married?”_  
_“If you had asked me that question fifty years ago, the answer would have been yes,” Morag said, “But I was young, I didn’t know who I truly was. Now, I know I was not made to be someone’s wife, I’m not made to be a mother. Aragorn is a lot better off with Gilraen. I wouldn’t have had her strength to get him here; I would have…I went looking for revenge, and I almost got myself killed for it. Arathorn made the right choice.”_  
_“He could have made it with a little more tact,” Elrond commented._  
_“He was sixteen,” Morag said, “It was hardly going to be an eloquent, poetic declaration that he could not marry me now, was it?”_  
_“I suppose not,” Elrond mused, “Now, would you like to room with your companions?”_  
_“Oh, sweet Eru, no!”_

Firm, warm hands were pressed against Morag’s back, the fingertips trailing down her spine. She opened her eyes to be greeted with the Elven-King’s bare chest. She had almost forgotten what had happened the previous day. It had been a jumbled, confusing mess of a day but she remembered going to bathe and seeing Bilbo before climbing back into bed with Thranduil. She had to admit…it felt nice to be encircled in his arms. It felt…safe, protected. It had been the most restful night’s sleep she’d had since Rivendell in fact, perhaps even longer.   
“Awake at last,” she heard him speak, his voice rumbling deep in his chest.

In an instant his hands were on her arms, pulling her up and over his body until she lay across the length of him, his mouth on hers. His tongue immediately sought out hers, one hand reaching out and gathering her hair up to expose her neck; the other positioning her so she straddled him beneath the opulent, blood-red bed covers. She could feel him, hard and ready beneath her, her hips rolling against him. He groaned and began to trail his hot, wet kisses down her jawline as his hand left her hips, sliding upwards until it reached her breast. He hadn’t paid any particular attention to them the day before but now he squeezed and groped eagerly, making her move against him more, desperate for more friction, more heat. His thumbs grazed over her nipples and she whimpered.

That was all the incentive the great Elven-King needed. In one swift movement, he was sat up, Morag tucked neatly into him and his hands were gripping the bottom of her shirt. He began pulling it up.  
“No!” Morag cried out, trying to pull his hands away and scramble out of his lap at the same time. Thranduil pulled her back in.  
“Why?” he asked, his voice little more than a growl, “Why this resistance? You surrender your body to me but will not allow me to see all of it…” He leant in close to her ear.  
“Why do you not allow me to worship your body as I should, as any woman should be?” he asked. He could feel the slight shaking that had set in. His arms slid around her in an embrace.  
“Morag,” he said softly, “What are you hiding?”  
“My flaws,” she said, “You are surrounded by all these perfect beings and I…”  
“You think I care about physical beauty?” Thranduil interrupted her, “I do not. When you are one of us, you learn to see beyond the beauty on the outside. We are all considered beautiful by mortals, so we must look beneath it. Now, show me what you are hiding.” Morag hesitated, wondering if this was such a wise idea. He was going from stern to soft and back again at a moment’s notice. What if he was disgusted by what he saw? He wouldn’t be used to such disfigurement, being one of the Elves.  
“Close your eyes,” she said.  
“What?”  
“Please,” she said, pleading with him. He looked at her for a moment before sighing and closing his eyes.

Morag froze. She hadn’t actually expected him to do it.  
“Morag?” he said, his eyes still closed. She reached down and drew her shirt up and over her head. She dropped it on the floor by the bed, ensuring it made enough noise for him to hear.  
“Give me your hands,” she said, softly. A hush had descended over the chamber as Thranduil raised his hands. She took hold of his wrists and guided them to the middle of her back, having to arch slightly and press herself against him to do so. As soon as his hands were in place, she relaxed a little. She felt them press against her skin, smoothing downwards at first before moving back up. When he reached just below her shoulder blades, she heard his shocked intake of breath and closed her eyes. She didn’t want to see the look of disgust that was sure to cross his face. His fingers trailed over her skin, following the pattern of the rough, twisted scars that laced her upper back and shoulders.  
“Morag,” his voice sounded breathless. She felt one of his hands leave her back and cup her chin.  
“Look at me,” he commanded. Morag opened her eyes, to meet the gaze of his own of purest blue. There was no disgust or pity on his face, only sympathy and understanding.  
“Who did that to you?” he asked, the hand that was still on her back, tracing the lumpy scar that went down her spine.  
“Orcs,” she said, simply.  
“What happened?” he said, “Tell me.”  
“I was eight years old,” Morag said, unable to tear her eyes from his, “My mother and I were moving back west across the Misty Mountains. I can’t remember how, but we were captured by Orcs. They must have been working for someone. They killed anyone in our group who didn’t escape the ambush except for us. They…” She had to stop and close her eyes. Her heart hurt thinking about her mother, and tears were pricking her eyes. She felt Thranduil’s hand caress her face, his thumb wiping an errant tear away.  
“They tortured us,” she said, even though she could hear her voice shaking, “Asking the same question over and over…where is he? Where is he? I…I didn’t know who they wanted.” Her shoulders shook and she sobbed. She could still hear her mother’s screams, hear her begging them to spare Morag’s life.  
“How did you escape?” Thranduil asked, tilting her head so she was looking at him again. Morag sniffed.  
“The sons of Elrond, they came charging up on white horses, scaring the Orcs away,” she said, “Elladen carried me to his father, wrapped in his cloak. I was almost dead by the time they got me there, and even Elrond himself thought I wouldn’t last the night. The Orcs had been trying to skin me alive, peeling the skin from my body and using some dark art that meant it will never fully heal. So there you have it, Your Majesty.”  
“You were only eight years old?” Thranduil said softly, “How…It is remarkable that you survived. You are not the only one who has survived something that should have ended you. You are not the only one who has walked away from such a meeting bearing the physical reminder.” His eyes flickered shut and for a moment nothing happened until… Morag gasped and nearly fell from Thranduil’s arms as she saw his flesh warp and seemingly melt away.

It spread from his jaw up to his brow, one eye turning a milky-white colour. After the shock initially dissipated, Morag found herself reaching out and running her fingertips over the scarred flesh.  
“Dragonfire,” Thranduil offered as an explanation.  
“Can you see out of that eye?” Morag asked.  
“In a way, but not as clearly as I would like,” he answered, “You have no need to hide your scars here, not with me, Morag. They are a testament to your strength, to your will to live. You should be proud of them.”  
“How do you hide them?”   
“All Elves possess a little magic about us,” he said, “Some more so than others. I use mine to restore my outward façade when needed. As King, I must seem to be an undefeatable beacon of strength…even against a dragon.” He leant in and kissed her, not bothering to restore his face to its flawless state.

Morag’s heart began to race. Everything was laid bare between them now and he still wanted to ‘wage war’ on her, scars and all. His hands glided over her skin to her chest and cupped her breasts. She briefly opened her eyes and looked down. She’d never considered her cleavage anything less than ample but seeing them disappear into Thranduil’s large hands made her feel small in a way she never had before. It made her feel…precious, and as if he would do anything to protect her. He rolled her nipples between his thumb and forefingers, making her gasp. He made a choked noise as she pressed her hips against him.  
“Such heat,” he whispered, “Almost ready for me, but not yet.” His hands left her breasts and returned to her back. He rolled them so she was laying on her back, her black curls spread out on the sheets. He kissed her neck, her collar bone, between her breasts and down to her stomach, his hands following the same path. Morag instinctively opened her legs wider, inviting him in as her hands clenched the sheet above her head. His fingers passed his mouth, descending down between her legs and tracing back up her slit, pressing into the little bundle of nerves at the top. Morag cried out at his teasing.

Thranduil’s hand left her, instead moving to rest at the side of her hips to support his weight as his tongue dipped into her naval. He began to lick back up her body, reversing the path his lips had taken until he reached her breasts. He traced his tongue along the underside of one before closing his lips over the hardened peak. Morag cried out as he sucked on her warm flesh. She lifted her hips slightly as he continued to tease her. He whispered her name, his breath ghosting across the damp skin, making her shiver. His weight shifted slightly to one side and she felt his fingers return to her core, gently probing as his mouth returned to her breast. Morag’s hands wound their way into his hair, pressing him against her. One finger caressed the tip of his ear and he let out a long, deep moan, pulling away from her breast as he did. His hand left her and captured the one on his ear.  
“Like this,” he whispered, guiding her fingers to caress the pointed tip. She repeated the motion, earning herself another desperate groan from the Elven-King and his lips on her breast once more.

He pushed a finger deep inside her before grazing her soft flesh with his teeth. Morag clenched around him as her heart raced.  
“Such heat,” Thranduil whispered, “So wet. You are ready.” He pulled away from her, causing Morag to make a mewl of complaint. But she didn’t resist when his hands took hold of her and rolled her onto her front before raising her onto her hands and knees. His hands ran down her back from her shoulders to the soft flesh of her backside. He gripped the round globes and spread them with his thumbs. Morag didn’t even care that he was ‘winning’ this round, she just wanted to feel him inside her, to feel that connection physically.  
“Look at you, dripping for me,” he said softly, “So ready, perhaps I should tease you a little more?” She could hear the humour in his voice.  
“Don’t you dare,” she ground out, her fists clenching. Thranduil chuckled.  
“I would never dream of it, my dear Morag,” he said before thrusting inside her.

Morag felt the wind being knocked out of her at the force of his thrust. She heard Thranduil make an appreciative sound as he stilled, his hands coming to rest on her hips. He began to push her forward, she could feel him almost sliding out of her before he pulled her back. She felt a jolt of heat rush down her, making her clench. Thranduil pushed her forward again and pulled her back. He pressed against her sweet spot and she cried out.  
“Thranduil,” she moaned, feeling her arms begin to shake as he began to thrust to meet her return.  
“Morag,” was his whispered response. She began to move of her own power, increasing their speed. Each plunge met her sweet spot, building the pressure until she was almost screaming in pleasure. A particularly forceful push from Thranduil pressed her down onto her stomach. He lowered himself with her, not breaking his pace. He continued to rest his weight on one arm, his other hand coming around her throat, turning her head. He bent down and kissed her, forcing his tongue between her parted lips as he moved faster and faster. Morag began to pant between kisses, feeling light-headed, her eyes starting to roll backwards.  
“Morag…come for me,” he whispered against her lips before slamming his hips into her one final time.

And she did, with a long, loud scream. Her vision turned white as she pulsed around him, collapsing completely on the bed. Thranduil roared above her as his hips locked against her. She felt the hot rush as he released inside her, his breath heavy on the back of her neck. He slipped onto his forearms and she felt his lips on her back. He was kissing her scars, gently caressing them with his tongue as he softened inside her.   
“What have you done to me?” he whispered in her ear, his lips touching her, “How have you made me lose so much control?”  
“I should ask the same of you,” Morag gasped as he began to pull out of her and readjust the blankets so they were both covered. She felt his fingers touch her back. It was like he was becoming obsessed with her scars. But the gentle attention and seeing his own scars was allaying any fears she had once had.  
“I do not wish for you to leave,” he said, “I want you to stay…for a long time. Here, with me. Please, Morag, stay.”

 

 


	10. Barrels Out Of Bonds

Morag sat on the bottom step, staring at the passage that would lead her away from the Elven-King, to freedom.

_Please, Morag, stay._

His plea from that morning, almost a week ago, begging her to stay with him, to remain as his lover, still rang in her mind. But the longer she stayed, in his arms and in his bed, the harder it would be to leave. It had been a week already. A week of his touches, kisses and caresses. A week of sharing his bed and the only times she could think clearly was when he was away. Which had become increasingly more often. She was left alone in his chambers for longer and longer, and having exhausted all possible entertainment for her, she spent more and more time wondering what she should do.  
_I want you to stay…for a long time._

She had to get out. She had to go. It would be too easy to get lost in him, too easy to get addicted to him. She had to stop, had to get away. She took a deep breath and checked her boots were on properly. The sun would be setting soon, but she had to time it right. Too soon, her disappearance would be discovered and the alarm would be raised. Too late, and she would miss her chance. She had to get to the cellars as the stars came out, just as Bilbo had said.

Thranduil had left for a while, going to organise the final details for the feast tonight. He had told her he would return later. To bring her to the feast, as his guest. Now, she had to go now. She stood up and crossed the private bath to the passage. She heaved herself up to step through the gap and was about to step through when she felt a grip on her wrist. She was tugged backwards and stumbled back into the room.  
“Where are you going?”  
She didn’t have to turn around to know that Thranduil had returned early, no doubt thinking they could take another tumble on the bed before leaving. She tried to pull free.  
“Morag, where were you going?” Thranduil demanded.  
“Let me go!” Morag cried out, trying to yank her arm from his grip. But there was no way she would have the strength to break the hold he had. He pulled her again until she stumbled back into his arms.  
“Morag, look at me,” he said, trying to turn her head to face him. No. She couldn’t look at him. If she did, she knew what would happen. She would end up in his bed again, stuck in his Halls for the rest of her days. She pushed away from him and he finally let go of her arm. She stumbled forward into the wall, twisting herself so she was facing him.

He looked furious.  
“What were you trying to do?” he said, “After everything I said, this is how you would repay me?”  
“I can’t do this,” Morag snapped, “I can’t stay here, with you. If I stay, I’ll never leave.”  
“You are no prisoner,” Thranduil said, stepping forward, “I told you that…the Dwarves…there’s a plan to free them.” Morag had to give him credit. He was as intelligent as he looked.  
“Morag, who is freeing them?” he said, moving closer to her.  
“Stay away from me,” she said, glancing around for a means of escape. Bilbo hadn’t avoided detection for almost two weeks for her to blow his cover now. But the Elven-King had her trapped in a corner with a table blocking her only escape.  
“Morag!” Thranduil raised his voice. His arm reached out to grab her again. Her heart pounded. She was trapped. She wanted out…had to escape. Her hand found something cold and heavy…a marble bowl on the table. Her vision blurred as she gripped it and swung her arm. There was a grunt, a smash and a thud.

She blinked until her vision cleared. In her hand she still held a chunk of the heavy bowl. She dropped it and looked down. Thranduil lay on the ground, surrounded by shards of the bowl. She didn’t know how, but she’d hit him. He was perfectly still.  
“Thran…Thranduil,” she said cautiously. Nothing. No movement. No talking. She pushed off the wall and crept closer.  
“Thranduil…” she repeated. She froze when she saw the trickle of red seeping across the floor from under the Elven-King’s head.  
“No, no, no,” she cried, rushing forward and kneeling by his head. His eyes were closed, a great gash across his forehead where she’d struck him. She touched his neck…she couldn’t feel a pulse. His chest…still nothing. He didn’t look like he was breathing.  
“No, no, no, no, no,” she said as she scrambled away. She looked down. Blood was beginning to stain her shirt and pants. She made a horrified cry. She hadn’t meant to kill him.  
“Thranduil, I’m sorry,” she sobbed, “I didn’t mean to…I….I’m sorry.”

She had to leave now, or the Elves would kill her. She’d killed their King. She wiped her eyes on her sleeve and scrambled to her feet. She hauled herself through the gap in the wall, almost falling off the narrow ledge on the other side. She had to duck her head a little. No wonder the Elves weren’t bothered about this gap. It was almost too small for Morag to use. She began to edge along the little path. As it began to curve away, she looked back. Thranduil still lay there, perfectly still.  
“I’m sorry,” she sniffed before turning and continuing along the path.

***

“Bilbo! What are we waiting for?!” Thorin hissed so as not to wake the two drunken Elves asleep on the other side of the cellar.  
“Please, just one more moment, she’ll be here,” Bilbo pleaded.  
“Morag?! You’re waiting on her?!” Dwalin whispered.  
“She’s in the company of the Elven-King, she’ll tell him everything,” Thorin said angrily.  
“She won’t! She’s coming. She’s…” he was cut off by a clattering sound and Morag sliding down the steps on her side.  
“Ow,” she muttered, climbing to her feet, “Alright, Bilbo, what’s the plan?”  
“Barrels,” Bilbo said, “Get in one, quickly.”  
“Her?” Kili said, “We were waiting for her?!” He glared at Morag as she climbed into the barrel above him. The Dwarves started murmuring angrily amongst themselves.  
“Please,” Bilbo pleaded, “We have to go.”  
“Well, what do we do now?” Bofur asked.  
“Hold your breath,” Bilbo said. Morag saw him reach for the handle to open the trap door and quickly jammed herself as securely into the barrel as she could. She was almost too big for it and knew she was going to be in for an uncomfortable ride as the barrels began to roll down when the door opened.

Water sloshed over the side as the barrel righted itself in the river below. She immediately threw a hand out to grab the stone and stop herself from floating away. Lifting herself up, she grabbed Bofur’s barrel with the other.  
“Thanks,” he said, pushing his hat out of his eyes, “Whose blood is that?” He was staring at the red stain that had crept up her shirt. Morag opened her mouth to answer but couldn’t find her voice so she just shrugged. The trap door creaked open again and Bilbo came tumbling out. Nori grabbed him by his collar and pulled him up to his barrel.  
“Alright, let’s go,” Throin said, pushing off the stone wall and leading them out. The river dropped outside the Halls into some rapids. Morag could hear the Dwarves shouting in panic as they started to separate but had to fight to keep her barrel upright. Then she heard the horn. The Elves had discovered their escape. Spinning her head around, she saw the gate up ahead beginning to close as Thorin’s barrel reached it.  
“Oh, no,” she muttered. If they were caught now, they would see the blood, if they hadn’t already discovered Thranduil. This was it. This was the day she died. The Elven guards on the gate changed to a fighting stance only for one of them to jerk and fall forward, an arrow in his back.

Orcs began swarming over the wall and gate, attacking the Elven guards. One almost landed on Morag. He was already dead so Morag seized his sword from his hand and swung it at an Orc, slicing off it’s head. Fighting in a barrel was as difficult as it sounded. She didn’t have the space to swing herself and the sword as she normally did. She had to rely on her strength, not momentum to keep the blade moving. Kili jumped past her, heading up the stairs to reopen the gate. Morag slammed her fist into an Orc that tried to bite him, spraying herself with his black blood as well as the red.  
“Kili!” she heard Thorin’s oldest nephew cry out. She glanced up. A black arrow had landed in Kili’s thigh and he was writhing on the ground. She had to help. She looked around but there was no way for her to get out of the barrel and to him before an Orc did. One was already storming down the steps to him.

There was a whistling noise and the Orc dropped dead. Morag swung her head around. Tauriel came charging out the undergrowth, Legolas not far behind her. Their bows sang as arrows flew to their targets with deadly accuracy. Morag heard yelling in the Black Speech. Just beyond Tauriel were the Orcs, and one in particular. She hadn’t gotten a good look at their pursuers face before now. Like a flash of lightning, she recognised him. As twisted and malformed as any Orc, but with metal embedded into his flesh.

WHERE IS HE?

I DON’T KNOW!!

WHERE IS HE?!

I DON’T KNOW ANYTHING!

She dropped her sword and sank into the barrel. It was him. The vile Orc who had overseen her torture sixty years before. Her heart pounded, her breathing became short and shallow, her hearing muffled. A creaking sound and the barrels began to move. Morag couldn’t think, could barely breathe. Her barrel rocked from side to side as it rode over more and more rapids, water sloshing in. Arrows, both Orc and Elf, flew over her head as she felt her chest hurt. She couldn’t breathe and she cried out. Faintly, she thought she could hear someone calling her name, but her pulse pounded in her ears, drowning it out. Water sloshed over the edge of the barrel as she remembered her mother’s screams.

SHE DOESN’T KNOW!

PLEASE, LEAVE HER ALONE!

TAKE ME, I’LL TELL YOU EVERYTHING!

SHE DOESN’T KNOW!

Morag looked upwards. The stars were beginning to appear and the sounds of fighting were beginning to quieten. The current of the river was increasing, carrying them away from their enemies to safety.  
“Morag?” she heard Bofur. Two hands appeared on the edge of her barrel and his face soon followed.  
“Morag, what’s wrong?” he asked. She couldn’t answer him, only try to cover her face with one hand as she sobbed. She cupped her free hand into the water that had accumulated in her barrel, scooping some up and throwing it at him. She heard the clunks that followed his leaning back and his barrel floating away from hers. She wanted to be alone. The last few days had turned everything she knew upside down. Now, she was going to be hunted by the Wood Elves for the rest of her days for the murder of their King, and the Orc who had tortured her had emerged from her past to hunt her again.

The barrels travelled quickly down river and through the night, but Morag’s fear didn’t subside. Her heart pounded still, though less ferociously and she felt a cold sweat descend over her. The sun was just coming up as they lost the current. She heard Thorin give the order to head for shore. She was about to lift herself up when a hand closed over the rim of her barrel and she felt it being pulled to the shore.  
“It’s alright, Morag, I’ve got you, lass,” she heard Bofur’s voice say. Her barrel tilted and leaned onto one side as they reached the shore. She crawled out.  
“Morag,” she saw Bofur crouch down in front of her, “Whose blood is that on your shirt?” Morag still couldn’t find her voice. She’d never killed an innocent person before. She felt like a monster, especially knowing that Legolas had fought off the Orcs at the gate and saved their lives.  
“Morag?” Bofur said again. She felt his hand on her hair, sweeping it out of the way and the gasp when he saw the ends of her scars on her neck.  
“Oin!” he called, “Oin! Come quick!”  
“What’s going on?” Thorin said.  
“I think the Elves have done something to Morag!” Bofur replied, panic in his voice. Heavy footsteps approached and Morag felt another hand on her neck.  
“Bofur, you silly beast! These wounds are years old, and definitely not the work of Elves,” Oin said, “If I had to guess, I’d say these were made by Orcs, a long time ago.”  
“It was him…” Morag rasped, her voice returning to her, “The one with the metal face…he did this, sixty years ago.”  
“Is that why you hid?” Thorin asked. Morag looked up. He was looking down on her with a surprisingly neutral expression. He didn’t seem concerned, but at the same time, he wasn’t looking at her with condescension either. She nodded.  
“I couldn’t drown out the screaming,” she said, “All I could hear was my mother pleading for my life.” Thorin looked at her for a moment.  
“Our contract…” he spoke, “Is null and void. Give it to me.”  
“I don’t have it,” Morag said.  
“What do you mean, you don’t have it?” he snapped.  
“I don’t have it,” Morag repeated, “It was in my coat pocket which the Elves took from me.”  
“Obviously you didn’t spread your legs far enough for Thranduil,” Thorin growled. Any remnants of the fear and panic from earlier vanished as Morag raced to her feet, rage boiling inside her.  
“Don’t…talk about him,” she spat, “You have no idea what happened in those Halls, what I had to do to get out of there.”  
“Contract,” Thorin said, “Null, void. No money, nothing.” He turned and began stomping off down river. He began shouting out orders for them to bind Kili’s injured leg and be ready to move on in two minutes. The others began to follow him, leaving Morag alone, blood-stained and in more fear for her life than she had ever been before.


	11. Flames Of War

_“Aaaaaaadddddddaaaaaa!” A child’s scream bounced off the trees, surrounding Thranduil as he stood amongst the trees. Where was it coming from? Why was a child screaming in his dreams?_  
_“Aaaaddddaaaa!” The cry came again. Still, he could not find the source. He looked down. His sword was in his hand…this was no dream…it was a memory._  
 _“Legolas!” he shouted, his eyes darting between the trees, searching for a sign, any sign of his son._  
 _“Ada!” This time it was clear, Thranduil knew his son was just west of him._  
 _“Legolas!” he called back, running through the trees in the direction of the voice._  
 _“Ada!” Thranduil found the path the group had been travelling on. The group that had included his wife and son._  
 _“Legolas!” he cried, looking up and down. The bodies of his kin and the Orcs lay scattered in both directions, but he could find no sign of his son, or his wife._  
 _“Ada,” Legolas’ voice was barely more than a sob now. Thranduil looked right, the path curved away to the east there. Thranduil ran down the path, stepping over the bodies that lay before him. He followed the curve before coming to a complete stop. Everything seemed to slow down as he took in the sight of his wife laying on the ground, a sword not far from her outstretched hand. Legolas, his young son, was tugging on his mother’s arm._  
 _“Naneth!” he cried, “Naneth!” Even from this distance, Thranduil knew she was dead…but how did he explain that to a boy who couldn’t understand where the sun went at night._  
 _“Naneth!” Legolas screamed, trying to shake his mother awake before turning to face his father. Thranduil felt his chest freeze mid-breath. From head to toe, Legolas’ front was stained red with his mother’s blood._  
 _“Ada…” the child sobbed, wiping his eyes on his sleeve. He stepped away from his mother’s body and stumbled towards Thranduil._  
 _“Ada,” he cried, his arms outstretched, stumbling slightly. Thranduil’s grip slackened and his sword clattered to the ground. He dropped to one knee to scoop up the blood-stained child._  
 _“Ada!” an adult’s voice sounded in Thranduil’s head as his arms tightened around his son._  
 _“Ada! Ada!”_

“Ada!” Thranduil’s eyes opened at the panic in his son’s voice. Instantly he felt the searing pain in his temple. He groaned and lifted his hand. His fingers felt something damp on his head. Examination of his fingertips revealed it was blood. Flashes of memory passed through his mind. Morag attempting to escape. Him confronting her. The look of panic and fear in her eyes as she yelled, swinging her arm. Searing pain, and then darkness. He blinked and looked around. Legolas was crouched next to him, his face a mixture of concern and anger.  
“Ada, are you alright?” he asked, remaining close as Thranduil sat up, clutching where his head was cut.  
“I am fine,” Thranduil said curtly, “Where is Morag?” Legolas didn’t answer, his face morphing into a scowl at Morag’s name.  
“Legolas, where is she?” Thranduil demanded, his temper growing short as the throbbing in his head increased.  
“Gone,” Legolas answered.  
“Gone? Gone where?” Thranduil asked, though in his heart, he feared he knew the answer.  
“She escaped with the Dwarves during the night,” Legolas said, “She must have stolen the keys and freed them.”  
“How did they escape so easily?” Thranduil said as he grasped the wall for support as he climbed to his feet.  
“Empty barrels in the cellar, Galion and Elros were drunk,” Legolas answered, “I…I had the chance. I could have put an arrow through her heart, I should have taken it.” His voice had gone cold and hard, sending chills down Thranduil’s spine at the thought.  
“No, Legolas,” he said quickly. He hadn’t felt the rush of fear like that in…years.  
“She tried to kill you,” Legolas spat, “She left you lying on the floor, bleeding.”  
“It will take a lot more than a blow to the head to end me, my son,” Thranduil said angrily, “Now, you say she left with the Dwarves.” His head was truly throbbing and he could feel anger settling into his gut. After everything…she’d thrown back in with the Dwarves.  
“I knew she was up to something…she was entirely too eager to be in your company,” Legolas continued, beginning to pace back and forth, “I…I should have seen it.”  
“Morag had forsaken any connection with the Dwarves when she was brought to me,” Thranduil said. It was only half a lie. He had been certain she had broken any agreement she had with the Dwarves when she confessed to him. But now he wondered if that had been a lie.  
“She will soon regret it,” Legolas muttered, “They are pursued by an Orc pack. We captured one, I thought you would want to question him.”  
“I will,” Thranduil said, “Though I need a moment to…clean myself up.” He began to make his way towards his bed chamber.  
“Why do you defend her, Ada?” Legolas asked, “Why do you defend this…this…wild woman from the North? What is she to you?” Thranduil paused and looked over his shoulder to his son. Despite being almost two thousand years old, to Thranduil, Legolas was still the little boy who had been found covered in his mother’s blood. He still looked at certain things with the same cautiousness and fear that came with youth. He hadn’t faced many true dangers. He hadn’t witnessed armies of Orcs and evil Men descending upon his kin; he hadn’t felt dragonfire on his skin. He was still very young for an Elf. Thranduil didn’t answer Legolas’ question, instead he turned back and made his way up the stairs to his bed chamber.

How could Thranduil begin to explain Morag to Legolas when he, himself, did not understand? From the very moment she had been brought before him, Morag had occupied Thranduil’s mind. It was as if she had taken up residence in the back of his head and occasionally liked to poke him when he least expected it, to remind him that she was there. When she had been brought to his bath by Tauriel, he had never intended to take her as a lover. But when she had surrendered to him, he had been unable to stop himself. She had taken over his mind and body. All week, when he should have been attending to his duties, he found himself thinking of her. She was honest, passionate and the feel of her body pressed against his drove him to distraction. Just looking upon her would cloud his mind with lust. Two nights previously he had had every intention of discussing helping her return to her people. But when he had returned to his chambers, she had been asleep on the bed. Laying flat on her stomach, she had offered a perfect view of her backside. He should have woken her, talked to her. Instead, he had discarded his robe, crawled over her and woken her by kissing her neck and ear. She had woken with an aroused moan, her back curving and pressing her backside against his erection. He had taken her twice before he even remembered what he had wanted to talk to her about. Perhaps he hadn’t talked to her about her leaving because he never wanted her to leave. He’d even confessed as much after she had shown him her scars and he had shown her his own.

She was gone…he felt his heart sink a little at the realisation. She had fled and vanished into the world. She was intelligent; she wouldn’t come back within twenty leagues of this forest unless she wanted to be found. She was gone forever, just like his wife, and just like his beloved. His wife’s life extinguished almost two millennia before; his beloved now in the south with her husband. Was he doomed to be alone for all his long life he wondered as he used a wet cloth to clean the blood from his forehead. He glanced in the mirror on the wall. It looked worse than it was, and his head would ache for a while but nothing permanent. He had, after all, survived far worse. The enchantment on his face slipped and the scars of dragonfire crept across his face. His brow creased into a glare. He had given everything to her, even showing her his true face, and this was how she repaid him! She threw back in with the Dwarves who treated her so poorly! When he had revealed his scars to her and she had shown him her own, he hadn’t felt that open and vulnerable with another for over two thousand years. His gut boiled with rage and he found his fist slamming into the mirror. It shattered though it left no wound on his hand. The ones on his heart though would need longer to heal.

He took a deep breath. Right now, he needed to concentrate. It was highly suspicious that an Orc-pack passed through at the same time as Thorin and his company. It was no mere coincidence. These Orcs were up to something, something involving Thorin Oakenshield and he needed to find out what. The outside world was creeping into his kingdom, and he needed to stop it.

*

The Orc that Tauriel and Legolas had brought back was no leader that was for sure. He was only two-thirds of Legolas’ height. A strong gust of wind would probably blow him over without his armour which likely weighed almost as much as he did. But it was better than nothing, Thranduil thought. He circled around the Orc, his red robe flowing out behind him. It was an intimidating display. The Orc looked uncomfortable, but that may have been the two knives that Legolas held against its throat and the two in Tauriel’s hands. Good, he didn’t need an Orc getting too comfortable while he was making his speech about evil. To be honest, he didn’t even recall later what he said. But he knew it was working. The Orc was squirming as Thranduil paced around him.  
“You were tracking a company of thirteen Dwarves and a human woman,” Legolas said, “Why?”  
“Not thirteen, not anymore,” the Orc spat, “The young one, the black-haired archer. We stuck him with a Morgul shaft. Poison’s in his blood, he’ll be choking on it soon.”  
“Answer the question, filth,” Tauriel snarled, her grip on her knives tightening. Thranduil watched closely. It appeared he had underestimated the intelligence of this Orc…perhaps a different tactic was needed. The Orc snarled at Tauriel in the Black Speech.  
“I would not antagonise her,” Legolas warned as fury passed over Tauriel’s face.  
“You like killing things, Orc?” Tauriel said, “You like death? Then let me give it to you!” Tauriel swung her arm, aiming to slice the Orc’s throat open.  
“Farn! (Enough!)” Thranduil ordered, making Tauriel stop instantly, “Tauriel, ego! Gwao hi! (Tauriel, leave! Go now!” She was too emotional, it appeared she had formed an attachment to one of the Dwarves and Thranduil had missed it. The Orc hissed as Tauriel stormed off, her head held high. Thranduil was going to have to deal with her later.  
“I do not care about one dead Dwarf,” Thranduil said.  
“No, but I bet you care about that Morag,” the Orc chuckled. Thranduil was barely able to stop himself from flinching. Anger boiled in his blood. This Orc would dare speak her name.  
“You reek of her,” the Orc spat, “And she of you!” He laughed as Thranduil fought the urge to turn and look at him.  
“I remember her when she was little,” the Orc chuckled, “She was a squealer when we started cutting. Did she squeal for you too?”  
“Answer the question,” Thranduil said, his fists now clenched tightly behind his back as he turned to look at the Orc, “You have nothing to fear. Tell us what you know and I will set you free.”  
“You had orders to kill them, why?” Legolas asked, “What is Thorin Oakenshield to you?”  
“The Dwarf runt will never be King,” the Orc spat. Thranduil let out a deep breath in relief. The Orc was no longer thinking of Morag at least.  
“There is no King Under The Mountain, nor will there ever be,” Legolas said, pressing his blades closer to the Orc’s neck, “None would dare enter Erebor whilst the dragon lives.”  
“You know nothing,” the Orc snapped, “Your world will burn.” His words made Thranduil’s blood run cold. He’d heard that before.  
“What are you talking about?” Legolas asked, “Speak!”  
“Our time has come again,” the Orc sounded fanatical, “My master serves the One. Do you understand now, Elfling? Death is upon you, the flames of war are upon you! Death will come to you…Thorin Oakenshield…Morag…” He started to laugh. Thranduil’s anger returned. The image of Legolas as a child covered in blood, his wife laying on the path, his beloved turning away as she left for Lothlorien…Morag being consumed by dragonfire. He pulled his sword from it’s scabbard and swung with deadly accuracy. The Orc’s head hit the floor with a squelching sound that brought more satisfaction than any of the Orc’s answers.  
“Why did you do that?” Legolas asked, “You promised to set him free.”  
“And I did,” Thranduil answered as he looked down at the Orc’s twitching corpse, “I freed his wretched head from his miserable shoulders.”  
“There was more he could tell us,” Legolas insisted.  
“There was nothing more he could tell me,” Thranduil lied. It wasn’t the entire truth. He just didn’t want the Orc to say Morag’s name again. It felt…wrong for such a vile creature to say it.  
“What did he mean by ‘the flames of war’?” Legolas asked. Thranduil sighed. Legolas’ youth and inexperience in war was showing again.  
“It means they intend to unleash a weapon so great, it will destroy all before it,” Thranduil explained, “I want the watch doubled at all our borders, all roads, all rivers. Nothing moves but I hear of it. No one enters this kingdom and no one leaves it.” He strode off, feeling the urge to get away from the Orc and to somewhere private.

He didn’t stop walking until he was in his private chambers again. Once out of sight of all guards and other prying eyes, he slumped against the wall and closed his eyes. His heart was pounding. The Orc…it had dared to speak of Morag. It knew about her scars, the torture in her childhood that had caused them.

_Did she squeal for you too?_

The fact the Orc had taken such a vicious moment in Morag’s life, from her childhood, and brought it to the level of sex made him feel sick. It was why he had killed the Orc himself. Just to shut it up. He took a few deep breaths. How had simple lust transformed so quickly? He would kill for her…he would die for her if he had to. He wanted to go running after her and bring her back, to Mirkwood, to his kingdom, to his bed. Where she would be safe, where she would want for nothing. He hadn’t felt anything so strongly…only once this past Age, when his wife had come to him with a request and he hadn’t the heart to refuse her. He found himself whispering Morag’s name as he slid down the wall, his fists clenched to stop them shaking. He tried to reason with himself, never a good sign. He was a King. His duty was to his people, not to Morag. He had to stay. He couldn’t leave just to go find her…not without good reason. He raised his head and looked at his bed. The sheets were still rumpled from the previous morning, the last time he had made love to her. She was gone. And he was once more alone.


	12. The Bargeman

Morag glanced over her shoulder at Fili and Kili. She was trying to wash as much of the blood off her shirt as she could. If it began to smell, the Orcs would be able to track her. Kili was in a serious amount of pain and Fili was trying to help, but he wasn’t having much success. She wanted to go over and help, but Thorin was watching like a hawk. He’d moved the Dwarves slightly further down the shore, away from her. She felt on the verge of tears. She had nothing. No money, no food, no weapons. It would take a day or more to walk to the other side of the lake, to Esgaroth and then she had to find a way back across the Misty Mountains. That would mean travelling down to Rohan and then through the Gap, or getting weapons and supplies and trying to go alone through one of the passes. And that was if she made it to Esgaroth. She could be picked off easily with no way to defend herself, either by Orcs or Men, or worse still, the Elves could catch her. Her gut twisted. All she could see was Thranduil’s prone form laying on the floor, blood seeping from his head. She looked down at the shirt, most of it had come out though the fabric had stained an odd colour where his blood had mixed with Orc blood. She wrung it out before pulling it back on. She turned to find Bofur staring at her. She turned away. She didn’t want to be looked at. The Dwarves had now seen her scars, they knew she had been tortured as a child, and they were looking at her with pity in their eyes. Morag screwed her eyes shut. She didn’t deserve their pity, not after what she had done. It was like Thranduil’s ghost was following her, whispering in her ear.

_Why did you do that? Why did you kill me? Did I wrong you? Did I frighten you? Did I care for you too much?_

Morag shook her head, deciding to go scout out the best way to get to Esgaroth. She needed to get as far away from Mirkwood as she possibly could. She turned to begin moving off, to finally leave the Dwarves behind when she saw a dark figure climb to the top of the rocky incline above them. A quiver was on their back, a bow in their hands. Morag felt panic surge through her. It was them, an Elf, they’d found her. The stranger pulled the bow taught, taking aim at Ori who was emptying water out of his boots. The Dwarves all began to notice the newcomer. Dwalin scrambled to his feet, branch in hand to defend the Company’s smallest member. An arrow quickly struck the branch and the stranger turned, firing another and knocking the rock out of Kili’s hand.  
“Do it again, and you’re dead,” the stranger spoke. Morag felt a flood of relief. It was no Elf. The Woodland Realm wasn’t going to have her head just yet. She felt rooted to the spot nonetheless, she was after all unarmed.  
“Excuse me,” Balin spoke, “But you’re from Laketown, if I’m not mistaken.” He stepped forward, only for the stranger to take aim at him.  
“That barge over there,” Balin continued, only flinching slightly, “It wouldn’t be available for hire by any chance.” The stranger lowered his bow but didn’t answer. Instead he turned away, looking towards the barrels that lay in a mess on the shore.

His gaze fell on Morag, who did her best not to betray her nervousness. He was tall, a lot taller than her, but not quite as tall as the Elven-King. His dark hair swept across his shoulders and framed his chiselled face. He looked at her curiously before heading over to the barrels and beginning to lift them up, carrying them to his barge that was on the other side of the rocky outcrop.  
“You didn’t answer my question,” Balin said politely as he followed the man back towards his barge. Morag followed at a distance too, purely to ask for the best way to get to Esgaroth without badgering the man for a ride.  
“What makes you think I would help you?” the man said, a hint of aggravation in his voice. Clearly he didn’t get paid enough to deal with Dwarves.  
“Those boots have seen better days,” Balin said calmly, “As has that coat. No doubt you have some hungry mouths to feed.” He chuckled a little.  
“How many bairns?” he asked, smiling broadly. Morag leant against the rocks. No doubt this would be entertaining. Someone was bound to put their foot in it and she could use a laugh. The bargeman reached for another barrel.  
“A boy and two girls,” he answered.  
“And your wife, I imagine she’s a beauty,” Balin continued.  
“Aye,” said the bargeman, “She was.”  
“There it is,” Morag muttered to herself, “Open mouth, insert foot.”  
“I…I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to…” Balin stumbled over his words. Dwalin began to grumble about the time it was taking whilst his brother tried to apologise. The bargeman, it seemed, had excellent hearing as he turned towards Dwalin.  
“What’s your hurry?” he asked.  
“What’s it to you?” Dwalin grumbled.  
“I’d like to know who you are,” the bargeman replied, “And what you are doing in these lands.”  
“We are simple merchants from the Blue Mountains,” Balin lied, “Journeying to see our kin in the Iron Hills.”  
“And the woman?” the bargeman said, his eyes flitting up towards Morag.  
“Our guide, a Ranger from the North,” Balin said. Well, at least that was the truth.  
“Simple merchants you say?” the man looked back to Balin.  
“We need food, supplies, weapons,” Thorin interrupted, “Can you help us?”

The man glanced at Thorin before looking at the barrels. Morag could tell he didn’t believe a word he was being told.  
“I know where these barrels came from,” the man said, running his hand over one of the marks left by an arrow.  
“What of it?” Thorin said.  
“I don’t what business you had with the Elves,” the man said, “But I don’t think it ended well.” He glanced around, taking in their dishevelled appearances and the stains on Morag’s clothes.  
“No one enters Laketown but by leave of the Master,” the man continued, “All his wealth comes from trade with the Woodland Realm. He would see you in irons before risking the wrath of King Thranduil.” He threw the rope that was holding his barge at the small pier towards Balin. Thorin signalled for Balin to offer the man more, but Morag began to suspect she was wasting her time waiting, she needed to move before the man caught wind of what had happened in Mirkwood and handed her over to the Elves for a reward.  
“I’ll wager there are ways to enter that town unseen!” Balin said quickly as the man began to stow his bow and arrows.  
“Aye,” said the man, “But for that, you would need a smuggler.”  
“For which we would pay…double,” Balin quipped. The man gave Balin a look, as if he was weighing up the benefits for himself and his family against the possibility of punishment.  
“Agreed,” he said after a few moments of silence. He hauled the final barrel onto the barge as the Dwarves eagerly scrambled on.

The man looked at Morag who remained at a slight distance.  
“Are you not coming?” he asked.  
“We terminated her employment,” Thorin said in a growl casting Morag a dirty look. She responded by rolling her eyes.  
“Would it be possible to get a ride to Esgaroth, please?” she asked, trying to remember everything her mother had told her about manners, “And I promise I’ll find some way to pay you.” The bargeman smiled.  
“Of course,” he said, “I’ll take you for free.”  
“What?” the Dwarves chorused, “Why?!”  
“Because she is human,” the man said, “She is a lot easier to disguise and sneak into a human town then thirteen Dwarves…and whatever you are.” The man gestured at Bilbo. The Dwarves grumbled their discontent and shuffled to the front of the barge as Morag stood up straight and walked towards the barge.  
“Thank you,” she said as the man helped her aboard.  
“Not at all,” he said, “My mother always told me to help those in need. I couldn’t just leave you alone out here, even though I’m sure that you could take care of yourself if you were armed.” Morag smiled.  
“Thank you, again, for not assuming me to be defenceless,” she said, “It’s quite refreshing.”  
“You’re very welcome…what is your name?” he asked.  
“Morag,” she replied, “And you?”  
“Bard,” he answered, “A pleasure to meet you, Morag.”

*

Morag decided somewhere about halfway across the lake that she didn’t like boats. Her stomach felt like it was moving with the damn thing. She groaned from where her head rested on the side of the barge.  
“Sea-sickness, eh?” Bard said as he steered.  
“We’re not near the sea,” Morag complained, “I’ve butchered animals, Orcs…I’ve sewn men’s insides back in…why am I vomiting from a little bit of a current?”  
“It’s the momentum,” Bard chuckled, “Just keep your eyes closed and you’ll be fine.”  
“I hate your stupid boat,” she grunted before heaving herself over the side to vomit again.   
“So, Morag, how did you end up with this lot?” Bard asked as she lowered herself back onto the deck, looking decidedly pale. She glanced up to see the Dwarves, and Bilbo, gathered at the other end, counting out their coin to pay Bard.  
“My mother,” she said, “She…she made a promise to Thorin that she would aide him if he ever needed a guide. When they decided it was time to pay this visit, he came looking for her and found me instead.” If Balin could lie about why they were there, so could she.  
“Your mother?” Bard queried.  
“Dead, a long time ago,” Morag said, slumping to the side a little.

“What will you do when you reach Laketown?” Bard asked.  
“Try to get some coin together, get down to Rohan and meet up with my kinsmen,” Morag said, “The last time I saw them, they’d received word that King Fengel was looking for some fodder for his armies.”  
“You’re in luck then,” Bard said, “Gerret is soon to make a trading trip down to Rohan on behalf of the Master. The Master pays for men to guard the caravan and Gerret makes his coin from taking passengers.”  
“Sounds good,” Morag said, looking up at him, “But why are you helping me so much?” Bard glanced over at the Dwarves.  
“I don’t like that bossy one,” Bard said. Morag followed his eye-line and found him in a deadlock with Thorin.  
“I don’t like the way he said he’d ended your employment,” Bard continued, “He had every intention of leaving you to die out in the wilderness.”  
“Yeah, I don’t like him much either,” Morag said before grabbing her stomach as the barge made a sharp turn, heading towards a small pier.

Bard shrugged off his coat.  
“Put this on, cover your head and lay down as if you were sleeping,” he said, “If anyone asks, I’m going to tell them you’re my son, Bain, and that you’re asleep. He’s not much taller than you.” Morag took the coat and pulled it on. It may have been old and worn, but it was still warm, though that may have been from Bard. Morag slumped into the corner and pulled the coat over her black curls. Making sure it covered her feet as well, she curled up on her side, facing the side of the barge. Lying down didn’t feel much better, but when the barge stopped, the gentler movements were like she was being rocked to sleep.

She must have dozed off because the next thing she knew, the barge was on the move again. She lifted her head slightly, sniffing. A pungent smell of fish filled the air. She looked up in curiosity to see a fish flop out of one of the barrels the Dwarves were hiding in. She barely suppressed a snort of laughter.  
“It’s not that funny,” Bard said, even though he was chuckling too, “Quickly, lay back down, we’re approaching the gate.” Morag lay back down, making sure she was covered completely by Bard’s coat.

There was something about him that made her relax, but not in the same way Thranduil had. Thranduil. Her gut clenched at the thought of him. She was going to have to get on that convoy to Rohan as quickly as possible. Word would reach Laketown within a couple of days of Thranduil’s demise, and the large bounty the elves would no doubt put on her head.  
“Papers please!” a voice called out as the barge slowed. Bard exchanged words of greeting with the gatekeeper, whose name was Percy. Morag’s heart soared as Percy said nothing of the full barrels or the ‘sleeping’ lump that was herself. He was about to wave them through when another voice called out.   
“Alfrid,” Bard snarled. Morag froze, not daring to move as this Alfrid character approached, pointing out that the barrels were supposed to be empty before demanding the fish be emptied out. If the Dwarves were discovered, it would mean she was too. Had word already reached the Master? Did he know the Elven-King was dead, and that a human woman with black hair had done it? Her heart began to pound, throbbing in her ears. She was going to be found, the Dwarves were going to be found…Bard was going to get into trouble for helping them.

Some quick thinking from Bard stopped Alfrid’s men in their tracks. The barge began to move again and she breathed a sigh of relief. Safe at last…well at least for now. The barge came to a standstill once more. She felt Bard’s hand on her shoulder.  
“Keep the coat on for now,” he whispered, “And stay close.” Morag got to her feet slowly, her stomach still feeling a little uneasy. She saw Bard toss a coin to a rather confused looking man, telling him that he never saw the Dwarves and that he could keep the fish.  
“Da!” a voice called. A young boy, no more than fifteen years of age came running up to Bard.  
“Our house is being watched,” he said. This must be Bain, Morag thought. He was only an inch or two taller than she was, his head just reaching Bard’s shoulder. Bard’s brow furrowed for a moment before he whispered something in Bain’s ear and pointing him towards the Dwarves. Bard turned to Morag.  
“Keep the hood up, and stay close,” he said. He reached out and put his arm around her shoulders.

He began to lead her through Laketown, a crazy mess of alleys, streets and docks. Morag tried to keep track of where they were going but many of the alleys twisted and turned and the bridges overlapped. She was soon completely lost. Finally Bard directed her up the stairs to a house, built high up to keep away from the lake water. He pushed her in through the door before turning around.  
“You can tell the Master that I’m done for the day,” he said to the man in a little boat just below the door. He then held the door open for Bain to slip in before coming in and slamming it shut behind him.   
“Da!” the two blond girls inside the house cried, rushing forward to embrace him. Bard smiled as he hugged his two girls. Morag felt very awkward as she lowered the hood.  
“Bain, get them in,” Bard said, nodding towards a set of stairs, “Sigrid, Tilda, this is Morag. Morag, these are my girls.”  
“Hello,” Morag said. She heard Dwalin’s grumbling voice and within moments, thirteen soaked, freezing Dwarves plus Bilbo had clambered up the stairs. Bard began to open old sea chests and drawers, pulling out dry clothes and throwing them on the table for the Dwarves to scrap over. Morag took off his coat, beginning to miss her own. It was going to remain in Mirkwood for the rest of time it seemed.  
“Here,” Bard said, approaching her with a small bundle of clothes, “The pants may be a little long in the leg for you, but these were my wife’s. I’ve been meaning to get rid of them.”  
“Bard, you don’t have to…”  
“You can’t walk around in a blood-stained shirt,” Bard said, “And here.” He placed a small purse on top of the bundle quickly before pushing it into Morag’s hands.  
“I know they’ve paid you nothing,” Bard said, “This should help you get to where you need to go.” Morag bit her lip. She had never experienced such kindness, not without someone expecting something in return. With most people, they wanted a favour, a job that needed doing, Thranduil had made her his lover.  
“Bard, if I can ever repay you…”  
“Don’t talk such nonsense,” he interrupted her, “Sigrid will show you to her room, you can get changed there.”  
“I’ll be gone by sundown,” Morag said. Bard just smiled.  
“Da! These Dwarves came out our toilet!” Tilda, the little one, said, giggling at Fili’s bedraggled appearance.  
“It’s not that funny, Tilda,” Bard said, turning and heading over to where his youngest stood, staring at their guests.

Morag watched him pick Tilda up and hold her close. She felt a pang in her heart that she hadn’t felt in years. Once, long ago, she had asked her mother about who her father was. The answer had made her dream of him picking her up like that, throwing her in the air, making her laugh. But she had learnt quickly that dreams like that weren’t going to come true for her. She looked down at the bundle of clothes Bard had given her. Fresh clothes, fresh start. It was time to get moving again. That was the life of the Dúnedain, always moving.


	13. Laketown

Bard had been right about the pants, they were a little long in the leg but only by an inch or two. As well as the pants, Bard had given her a woman’s shirt which had a neckline a little lower than Morag would have liked, a small woollen coat which was more like a shawl but it would keep her warm nonetheless and some woollen fingerless gloves. Overall they gave her a softer, more feminine look than she was used to and they had a few holes in them. But she wasn’t in a position to be choosy. She was just slipping the small coin purse into a pocket stitched to the inside of the coat when a small knock came at the door.   
“Come in,” Morag said before clearing her throat uncomfortably. Sigrid appeared.  
“My Da said to come see how you were,” she said.  
“I’m fine,” Morag said as she pulled on her boots, “You can tell him I said thank you for the clothes.”  
“What do you want doing with your old ones?” Sigrid asked, glancing at the garments thrown carelessly on the bedroom floor. Morag quickly bundled them up, embarrassed at having been found making a mess.  
“Um, I don’t want to keep them,” she said, “And I don’t think the Orc blood will wash out…you might as well burn them.” Sigrid held out her hands and took the bundle from Morag.  
“Da said to tell you, he will tell you where to find Gerret once he’s dealt with the Dwarves,” she said before leaving.

Morag pulled on her second boot and fastened it before heading out. The bedroom was in the attic space of Bard’s house, a double bed lay in the centre, a single partitioned off to one side. Clearly this was where his children slept while he had the bed downstairs. She climbed down the rough stairs as quietly as she could. Bard was showing the Dwarves the weapons he had for them. Gratitude was clearly the last thing on their minds as they threw them back down in disgust. Bard tried to explain that all the iron-forged weapons were locked in the city armoury but the Dwarves weren’t having any of it.

Bard looked like he was beginning to regret helping the Dwarves. Morag walked over and touched his arm.  
“Ah, Morag,” he said, looking relieved, “The clothes suit you.”  
“Thank you, again, for everything,” she said, “Sigrid said you could tell me where to find Gerret.”  
“Yes, I…” Bard started before glancing over at the Dwarves as if he’d suddenly heard something, “Right. Gerret.” He turned back to her.  
“Sigrid is going to sneak you out under the guise as being one of her friends,” he said, “I will meet up with you a few streets over and take you to Gerret. I have a few errands to run whilst I’m out.”  
“Right,” Morag said. Sigrid sidled up to her, grinning and linking her arm with Morag’s. Morag frowned. She’d never had a close friendship with a woman before and guessed she was going to have to take Sigrid’s lead on this.  
“Go now,” Bard said, “I won’t be long.” Morag pulled the small hood of the coat up and was soon pulled out the door by Sigrid who huddled close and pretended to giggle.

They had just reached the bottom of the stairs when a pair of town guards marched past on patrol. Morag stumbled to a stop with Sigrid and kept her head down, only looking at them when they had moved on. They were a lot bigger than her, one could possibly over power her if he wanted to. She began to hope Gerret was leaving soon; she didn’t want to be trapped in this maze of a town when word of Thranduil’s demise arrived. Sigrid pulled her along in the opposite direction, through another set of twisting alleyways and crisscrossing bridges until at last they rounded a corner to find Bard leaning against a wall.  
“How did you…”  
“I was born and bred here,” he said, “I know this town like the back of my hand. Thank you, Sigrid. Go home, quickly.”  
“Be safe, Da,” Sigrid said, hugging her father before hurrying off.  
“Follow me,” Bard said, nodding in the direction he wanted her to go. He set off and Morag followed a few feet behind him. She suspected there were still spies watching him.

Through the twisted maze of Esgaroth, he led her. This town was rapidly beginning to piss her off; it made no sense! Finally Bard stopped outside a tavern named The Leaky Barge. Morag slowed down.  
“In here,” he muttered, ducking slightly to fit through the small doorframe. Inside was roaring with life. Candles burned on every surface to light the dark little inn. Men crowded onto benches, drinking and laughing. Bard weaved his way through the tables to a small one in the corner where a stout, greying man sat, counting some coins. Morag quickly followed, standing close by as Bard seated himself on the only stool.  
“Afternoon, Gerret,” he said, smiling.  
“What can I do for ya, Bard?” Gerret said, peering up at Bard.  
“My friend, Morag, here would like to join your next trip down to Rohan,” Bard said calmly.  
“Bard, I can do this myself,” she hissed, bending down so he could hear her.  
“Trust me,” Bard whispered back.  
“Never seen her round here before,” Gerret said, looking Morag up and down.  
“She doesn’t get out much,” Bard lied.  
“Never heard the name Morag before either,” said Gerret, setting down his coins, “So tell me, Bard, where’d you find her?”  
“Look, she just wants to get to Rohan,” Bard said in a low voice, “She’s got kin down there she’s pretty desperate to get back to.”  
“Sorry, cart’s full,” Gerret answered, “And after that I’m done for the winter.”  
“She’s only little.”  
“It doesn’t matter if she’s only little,” Gerret hissed, “If the Master finds out you’ve smuggled someone in, and I’m smuggling them back out, it’ll be my hide.”  
“Come now, Gerret, have a heart,” Bard pleaded.  
“Look, the cart’s full,” he said, “Not only that, but I had to up me prices. I doubt she’s got the coin for it.”  
“You travel with an armed guard,” Morag said, “This town doesn’t look like it’s got a full complement of horses, so they must be on foot. Am I right?” Gerret stared at her for a moment.  
“Yeah,” he said cautiously.  
“So you can only go as fast as a man can walk,” Morag said, “How much to walk alongside the cart?”  
“That journey takes two weeks,” Gerret said.  
“I’ve walked for longer,” Morag said, folding her arms, “How much?”  
“Thirty-five,” Gerret said, “Forty if you want feeding too.”  
“Done,” Morag said, holding out a hand. Gerret shook hands with her. She reached into her pocket and pulled out the small coin purse. She quickly counted out forty coins and paid him. He quickly pocketed it before anyone saw.  
“We leave day after tomorrow,” Gerret said.  
“Can you leave sooner?”  
“No, I’ve got richer clients that have business to finish in town,” Gerret said, “I’m not telling ‘em they have to finish it early.” Morag glanced down at the few coins now left.  
“It’s not enough for a room for two nights,” Bard said, “At least, not anywhere you’d want to stay.”  
“I’ll be fine,” Morag said, turning and heading for the door.  
“No, you won’t,” Bard said as he grabbed her arm, “Look, I’ve got a warm spot by the fire that you can have. It’s two nights, it’s no bother.”  
“Bard, you’ve already done far too much for me,” Morag said.  
“Look, you’re not sleeping on the streets,” Bard said, “If you’re not at mine by midnight, I will come looking for you. I have some errands to run, try not to get into any trouble.” Morag glared up at him, trying to break his grip on her arm.  
“Fine,” she snapped. Bard let go and passed her to head off.

Morag watched him go. There was definitely something about him that made her relax, and she didn’t like it. Becoming relaxed was how she had ended up stuck in Thranduil’s bed, and she didn’t want to go jumping into Bard’s anytime soon. Not after how things had ended. Her gut clenched. Two days…the Elves would be here by then, and she’d have to run. She headed out of the inn, promising herself that she was going to get as far away from Bard and his family before the Elves arrived. He didn’t deserve that. He didn’t deserve to have Mirkwood’s army descend upon him and his children because they’d helped someone they thought was in need. She needed a drink. She glanced over her shoulder and saw a couple of the drunkards start brawling. She shook her head and headed off towards the centre of town. A nice quiet drink to settle her nerves, that was what she needed.

*

Morag leaned on the doorframe of the quiet inn she’d found and watched the little display Thorin was putting on. He was declaring himself for all to see, promising riches if the people helped him.  
“Ass,” she muttered before taking a swig of the weak mead. After almost two weeks of drinking Thranduil’s rich wine, this watered down stuff was easy on her stomach. Thorin however was not. He was making promises he was never going to keep, and she wasn’t the only one. Bard stood next to her, the same disgusted look on his face.  
“You said it,” he said in agreement.  
“Is it true about Girion?”  
“Aye,” said Bard, “One man, against a dragon. And they condemn him for missing.” Morag shook her head.  
“I’ve had enough of this,” Bard muttered, “Are you coming?”  
“Wild horses couldn’t drag me away fast enough,” Morag said before downing the last of her mead and putting the tankard on the table just inside the doorway. The pair of them skulked off into the shadows. Morag didn’t want to give Thorin the opportunity to call her names any more than he already did and Bard’s pride had been severely bashed by the Master.

Sigrid was still up when they came through the front door. She looked to be fixing Tilda’s doll by candlelight.  
“Da, where have you been?” she asked.  
“Dealing with Dwarves,” Bard muttered, “Morag will be staying here for two nights. If any of those Dwarves come back here, I want you to shut the door on them. We’re done with them.”  
“But…Da…”  
“Please Sigrid, just trust me on this,” Bard said, “Now go on, off to bed with you.” She put down her sewing, kissed her father on the cheek and hurried off upstairs. Leaving Morag and Bard alone. Morag began to feel awkward.  
“I’ll get you some blankets,” Bard said after a few moments of silence. He moved and she breathed a sigh of relief. He opened up an old chest and pulled out some blankets and a sheepskin.  
“Here,” he said, handing them to her.

Guilt was still creeping low in her stomach, making Morag feel sick as Thranduil crept unbidden back into her mind.

_Did I care for you too much? Why did you do it? Would you do it to him?_

She laid the sheepskin down by the fire and arranged the blankets, trying to ignore his voice.  
“If you need anything,” Bard said suddenly, almost making her jump, “I’ll be right over here.” And with that, he pulled across a curtain that divided the bed off from the rest of the room. Morag settled down onto her makeshift bed, hoping that tomorrow, the Elves wouldn’t come; Gerret would decide to leave early and she could leave this whole thing behind her. The bed on the other side of the curtain creaked. Morag glanced over. Nothing. Any other time and place, Bard would have made her look twice. Now, she felt nothing but guilt. There wasn’t even the faintest acknowledgement that Bard was a handsome man. Nothing. She rolled onto her back and stared at the ceiling.  
“What have you done to me, Thranduil?” she whispered.

*

It was the clatter of Bain coming down the stairs that made Morag awaken the next morning. She jolted upright to find Bard and the girls already pottering about, making breakfast and starting their day. Morag scrambled out of the blankets.  
“Sorry,” she said to Bard, “If you’d woken me, I’d have moved and helped…”  
“It’s fine,” he said, “You didn’t appear to sleep well during the night, so I thought I’d let you sleep in…miss the Dwarves heading off.”  
“Have they already gone?” she asked. Jovial music started floating through an open window.  
“Just leaving now,” Bard said, watching where his children were before leaning in to whisper, “Why were you muttering the name of the Elven-King in your sleep?”  
“It’s best if you don’t know,” Morag replied, trying to ask him not to ask any more questions without saying anything. Bard nodded and carried on with making breakfast.  
“Morag, come help me lay the table,” Tilda said, tugging on her sleeve.

Morag followed her, setting out the cutlery around the plates the young girl was laying down. It all felt cosy, and safe, and weird for someone who lived a nomadic lifestyle. Tilda invited her to sit next to her as Bard carried a large frying pan across and started loading the plates with eggs and bacon. Morag watched closely as they all ate and laughed together. This was familiar. How often had meal times with Halbarad and her other kinsmen descended into raucous laughter? Too many times for her to count. Bain was telling a story about something he and his friends had found floating in the lake when a knock came at the door. Bard stood and went to answer it.  
“No,” Bard said after opening the door.  
“Please!” Bofur’s voice sounded, “Kili’s sick. No one else will help us.” Morag turned and looked. Through the open door, she could see a very sickly and pale looking Kili being held up by his brother, Bofur and Oin were also with them. Bard sighed.  
“Get inside, quickly,” he said, standing to one side to let the Dwarves in. They piled in, carrying Kili. Tilda and Sigrid stared as they moved Kili towards the bed. Fili was struggling to lift his brother’s weight though. He kept knocking Kili’s feet, jarring the injured leg. Morag rushed forward and lifted Kili’s feet and helped haul him onto the bed.  
“Thanks,” Fili said, turning to look. His eyes widened slightly at seeing her and he quickly looked away.  
“Fili, you can look at me,” she said, “Or has Thorin forbidden that too?”  
“He said you’re a traitor,” he muttered as he helped remove Kili’s coat.  
“Looks like he left you behind though,” Morag  said.  
“I don’t deal with traitors,” Fili snapped, sounding every inch like Thorin.

The guilt that had gnawed at her all night was quickly replaced by anger. She dropped Kili’s feet and stormed out the front door. She leaned on the railings, looking out over Esgaroth as the sounds of Bard and the Dwarves searching for something to heal Kili faded into the background.  
“Morag?” Bofur’s voice intruded.  
“What do you want?” she asked, “Have you come to call me a whore and a traitor as well?”  
“No, lass,” Bofur answered, coming to stand next to her, “I…I never believed Thorin when he called you that.”  
“Well, thanks for standing up for me when I needed it,” she snarled, her grip on the railings tightening until her knuckles turned white. Bofur came to stand next to her.  
“Is it true?” he asked, “What he said you did? Did you…and Thranduil…” Morag turned to look at him.  
“Yes,” she answered honestly, “I did. I didn’t mean to.” Bofur said nothing. Morag looked away. Bofur was always so calm, she didn’t know how he managed it.  
“I didn’t mean to do any of it,” she continued, “Thranduil was starving me, he made me desperate…he forced it out of me, but it was nothing he didn’t already know.”  
“Then…why?”  
“To show he had all the power, I suspect,” Morag said, “Tricking me into confirming what he knew. He knew why you were all there the moment he laid eyes on Thorin…Bofur, the Elven-King terrified me. He made me admit to things I swore I’d never tell anyone.”  
“What kind of things?”  
“The scars on my back,” she said, “I’ve carried them since I was a child. I’ve never shown them to anyone. He asked once what I was hiding and I showed him…”

She trailed off and closed her eyes. Memories of that night surged through her mind. Thranduil’s lips and fingers tracing over the twisted flesh of her back. Her eyes stung when she opened them.  
“He broke my defences and I almost told him things I was determined to take to the grave,” she said.  
“No secret is worth dying over, lass,” Bofur said.  
“This one is,” Morag said, “Because if I tell it, I will end up dead.”  
“What kind of secret?” Bofur asked, “Tell me, lass, and maybe I can help you.”  
“You can’t,” she said, feeling tears begin to creep down her cheeks, “Because he’ll just kill you too, and anyone else who stands in his way.” She let go of the railings and trotted down the stairs, taking deep breaths until she reached a small alleyway. She walked into its shadows and leaned against a wall, sliding down until she was sat on the wooden walkway.

She put her head in her hands and sobbed. She wanted to go home, she wanted to be back amongst her kin. She wished she’d never met Thorin Oakenshield and his company. She wished she could have spent her life out in the wilds, dying in battle having never met a single member of Durin’s Folk. The sound of footsteps coming into the alley drew her head back up.  
“Lass,” Bofur had followed her. He sat down beside her and put an arm around her shoulder.  
“You said the Elven-King terrified you,” he said, “So why did you…”  
“I don’t know,” she sobbed, “I couldn’t stop myself, he just had this part of him that pulled me in. I couldn’t fight it. I wanted him so badly and at the same time, I’ve never been so scared in my life, scared by what I was doing. I felt like I was trapped and I…” Bofur’s eyes widened slightly.  
“Morag, whose blood was on your shirt the day we escaped?” he asked, his voice shaking slightly. Morag sniffed.  
“Thranduil’s,” she said, “I killed him. I swear I didn’t mean to.” Bofur’s other arm wrapped around her, pulling her into him.  
“It’s alright, lass,” he said, “We’ll get you out of here. We’ll keep you safe.”

The day seemed to be over too quickly, the sun setting early and descending Esgaroth into darkness. Bofur and Morag returned to Bard’s house to help with Kili. Morag was in charge of boiling water, keeping it hot enough for Oin to use. Bofur didn’t breathe a word of what she had said to anyone and for that, she was thankful. Unfortunately, Kili didn’t seem to be getting any better. He lay on the bed, groaning, his brow drenched with sweat. Fili’s patience was wearing thin as his brother grew more distressed.  
“Can you not do something?” he pleaded with the older Dwarf.  
“I need herbs,” Oin said, “Something to bring down his fever.” Bard began rummaging through what he had.  
“Nightshade,” he muttered, “I have feverfew.”  
“They’re no use to me,” Oin said, tiredness in his voice, “Do you have any Kingsfoil?” Morag’s ears pricked up at the name. Athelas, it was a favoured herb amongst her people for many ailments. She cursed herself for not thinking of it sooner.  
“No,” said Bard, “It’s a weed. We feed it to the pigs.” Morag moved away from the pot over the fire.  
“Pigs?” said Bofur, “Weed? Right.” He nodded to Morag before turning to Kili.  
“Don’t move,” he said, “Morag, with me.” Morag pulled on the woollen coat Bard had given her and rushed out the door.  
“I’ll take the west half of the town,” Bofur said, “You take the east. As much as you can find.”  
“Right,” she said, “Bofur, thank you for not telling anyone, and good luck.”  
“You too, lass.”


	14. Smaug

Morag sped through the dark streets, using the position of the moon and the tall chimney of the Master’s house to keep track of where she was. So far, she’d found no sign of any pig pens. Hopefully, Bofur was having better luck on the other side of the town. Something was making the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end, like she was being watched or followed. Had the Master sent out spies to watch Bard’s house again? She turned and looked over her shoulder. The little street was empty; the only sounds were her footsteps and a tile clattering off a rooftop somewhere. She took a right turn and headed further from the centre of town. If only she had thought of Athelas earlier, Kili would be on his way to getting better by now and she wouldn’t be out, hunting for a small plant by moonlight. Another roof tile fell, smashing on the walkway, closer this time. Morag spun around. Her eyes scanned the darkness for movement. She was getting paranoid. Laketown was old, and in disrepair. Roof tiles probably fell down all the time. Another one fell, much closer this time. Morag felt her eyes being drawn upwards. Dark figures were crawling over the rooftops. Orcs. And they were headed towards Bards house.

She began to run. Those Orcs were tracking Thorin and the others. She couldn’t let Bard and his children suffer, not when she could help. Bofur could find the Athelas, she had to get back to the house before anyone got hurt. She ran through the twisted streets before realising she had gone too far and had to double back. It was hard to keep track of landmarks and distances when the town kept twisting and turning and all the houses looked the same. She ran back a few streets before turning southwards again. She heard a scream, Tilda, and shouting in Black Speech.  
“No,” she muttered before running even faster. She was getting close, she knew it. She recognised some of the bridges. More screams.  
“Tilda!” she shouted, hoping the girls would hear and know help was coming, “Sigrid!” She could see the house, there were Orcs crawling on the rooftop, some of them dropping in through a hole in the roof. She didn’t see what she ran into until she was flat on her back. She blinked, looking up. A tall, broad, pale figure who stepped out of the shadows and grinned.

Her heart froze. It was him, the Orc who had overseen her torture, who had metal protruding from his face.  
“Morag,” he grumbled in a low voice. Morag scrambled to her feet. Her eyes darted around. There was no way of going around him and at that moment, her instincts screamed for her to run. She couldn’t decide. She wanted to help, but she had no way of getting past him. She glanced down the street. Another bridge. If she could outrun him for long enough, she could do a loop. The Orc laughed down at her as she took a step back. Now or never. She spun around and feinted going straight ahead before changing direction and going left at the last possible moment. The Orc roared and began to chase her, making the walkway shake beneath her feet.

She was almost at the bridge when a pair of Orcs ran across it, cutting her off. Morag almost fell, trying to turn right and heading deeper into Laketown. The sudden change in plan had slowed her down. The Orcs were dangerously close to her. Morag tried to keep track of how far she was getting from the house, trying to decide when to turn to loop back round. Screeches and splashes behind her told her the two Orcs who had cut off the bridge had suffered some mishap and fallen into the icy lake. But the big guy was still on her tail. She followed the twisting, turning streets of Laketown until she was completely lost. She knew she was heading south, which is where Bard’s house was. She took another right turn, hoping to do one last loop and lose the Orc when someone stepped out. Someone tall, graceful and blonde. Morag tried to stop, her feet falling out from underneath her, making her skid along the wooden walkway a little. She stopped just shy of knocking Legolas off his feet. His blue eyes glared down at her.  
“You,” he growled, making her back away a little.

A crashing noise drew his attention away from her. The Orc rounded the corner. Legolas drew his sword. Morag recognised Orcrist straight away, glinting in the moonlight. He stepped over her, headed for the Orc who snarled at him. Morag rolled onto her front, bracing herself to run if she had to. The two Orcs who had fallen into the lake came racing out of a side street, swords and knives drawn. They ran at Legolas who easily fought them off before turning his attention back to the large Orc. He, on the other hand, was not so easy, his larger size proving an obstacle to Legolas’ strength. In one instance, he trapped the blade of Orcrist between his arm and his torso. He used Legolas’ grip against him, swinging him into first one building and then the next before aiming a kick at Legolas’ chest. Morag sprang to her feet and rushed forward. She grabbed the dropped knife of one of the smaller Orcs as she ran. She slipped on a patch of tar, falling to the floor and sliding. She recovered some balance and as she passed the Orc, she swung the knife and sliced the back of his calf. He yelped in pain and Legolas threw him backwards. He leapt forward and took advantage of the Orc’s dazed state to land a few good blows before the Orc spun around and caught Legolas in his arms. Legolas fought against the Orc’s strength as best he could but he was struggling. Morag ran up behind him, using the metal protrusions from the Orc’s body to pull herself up and aimed a punch at his temple. The Orc roared, releasing Legolas and grabbing Morag’s arm, throwing her into a wall. She bounced off it and landed on the walkway, unconscious, hidden behind some barrels.

*

Morag awoke with a start, her head pounding, and scrambled to her feet. The Orcs and Legolas had vanished and there was an odd hush, like the calm before a storm. A gust of wind almost blew her over and a dark shadow descended. There was the soft clink and a coin landed on the walkway in front of her. She looked up slowly, feeling an odd chill seep through her bones. A huge beast was gliding over the buildings. Smaug had come to Esgaroth. She didn’t move, she didn’t dare as Smaug landed, perched across two or three buildings. When he was looking the other way, she began to back away, slowly at first. Smaug reared his head back and opened his mouth. Flames flew out and instantly, the quiet was broken. Screams erupted, flames crackled and suddenly the sound of people running. Morag turned and started to run. The roars of Smaug began to fill the air. She ran down one twisted street and then the next but she had lost her way and was heading deeper into Laketown.

People began to emerge from their homes, all running in different directions, knocking Morag to and fro. All she wanted was to find a way out. A huge crowd came rushing towards her. She quickly scrambled onto some crates and onto a low roof to avoid being crushed. In the mass of people, she spotted a familiar head of red hair. Tauriel, and she had Bard’s children with her it seemed. Fili, Bofur and Oin were close behind her, Kili slung across Fili’s shoulders. Morag let out a breath of relief. Another gust of wind almost blew her off the roof and a deafening rumble. A deep, booming laugh. She looked over her shoulder to see Smaug’s huge clawed foot coming down towards her. She leapt forward, off the roof and into the canal. The icy water made her chest constrict for a moment before she kicked upwards.

She broke the surface, gasping for breath in time to see Smaug unleash more flames on the dilapidated houses around her. She swam for the nearest walkway and hauled herself out. Stumbling to her feet, she headed in the same direction as everyone else, rushing through the streets. She glanced over her shoulder, trying to see where the dragon was, and ran into someone.  
“I say! Watch where you’re going!” The Master spat. She looked at him. The fat man and his lackey, Alfrid, looked like they too were running for safety. Morag didn’t stop to apologise, she just carried on running, occasionally ducking out of sight as Smaug flew overhead. More people were joining them, all heading for safety.  
“Morag!” a voice cried. She looked around to see Bard running towards her.  
“With me,” he said, “We’ve got one last chance to take him down.” He lifted his hand, revealing a long arrow. Morag hesitated for a moment before nodding. Here was her chance to pay Bard back for his kindness, by making sure he didn’t die alone.

Bard ducked down a side street and Morag followed.  
“Your children are safe,” she said as they ducked into a doorway to avoid Smaug. Bard looked at her.  
“Long story, but they’re with an Elf and the Dwarves,” she said.  
“A strange company they must make,” he said, “But at least they are safe. Come on, he’s gone.” They ran through the narrow winding streets, heading for the centre, the home of the Master.  
“What’s the arrow for?” Morag asked.  
“It’s a Black Arrow, forged to be used in a Dwarvish Windlance,” Bard explained as they ran up the steps to the house, “It’s for killing dragons. Look out!” He kicked the doors open and dragged Morag in as Smaug flew past. They crashed onto the floor as the steps outside caught fire.  
“Come on, quickly,” Bard ordered, heading for the stairs with Morag close behind him.

She followed him out onto the roof. The Dwarvish Windlance stood proudly on the end. Bard rushed forward and examined it.  
“It’s undamaged,” he said, before fitting the arrow. A gust of wind blew Morag straight into Bard.  
“You think you can defeat me?” a deep voice growled. Morag looked up to see Smaug perched on some rooftops not too far away.  
“The men of Dale failed when they had a dozen!” Smaug laughed, “You think you can defeat me with just one?!” He laughed again.  
“I will burn your pitiful town and all your people to ash!” He flapped his wings and took to the air but not before Morag noticed something.  
“He’s got a scale missing under his left wing,” she said, “Bard, one true shot and you’ll kill the beast!”  
“Aye,” said Bard, “One is all I need. Watch him whilst I prepare the Windlance.” Morag kept her eyes on the beast who now seemed to have set fire to every corner of Esgaroth. And that was when she saw it. The ring of fire that now surrounded them…every house all around them was ablaze.  
“Bard…we won’t be able to get out,” she said.  
“I know,” he said, “That’s why I must make this shot count. Get ready.” Morag refocused on Smaug who was swooping in low, crashing his back legs through the rooftops. He flexed his wings, his left one raising up, exposing the missing scale.  
“Bard, now!” Morag shouted. Bard yelled and fired the Windlance. Morag held her breath as the arrow flew through the air…and hit it’s mark!  
“Yes!” she cried as Smaug roared in pain, his wings collapsing. Bard just grunted, the force of the Windlance had knocked him to the floor. Smaug hurtled through the air and straight for rooftop they were stood on.  
“Time to go!” Bard said. He ran for the roof edge, grabbing Morag’s arm and together they jumped into the canal, hitting the water as Smaug crashed through the rooftops, plummeting towards the lake.


	15. Aftermath

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some bad language in this chapter.

Morag was surrounded by darkness, it pressed in on her, stopping her from breathing and pulling her down into the cold. Suddenly a hand closed around her wrist and pulled. The darkness seemed to release her and she was propelled forwards, breaking out into the crisp night air. She drew in huge, gasping breaths as her lungs burned. At her side, Bard coughed up water he had swallowed. The houses of Laketown were still burning, crumbling around them, but they had succeeded. They had killed the dragon; Smaug was dead.  
“Come on,” Bard said, swimming for a broken gate, the only safe way out of the burning town. Morag followed close behind. She had done it, she had helped take down a dragon. She and Bard slipped through the broken gate and out onto the lake where most of the Lakemen had taken to barges and boats to escape Smaug. A lone barge emerged from the mists, coming in close beside them. Hands reached down to pull both of them onto it.  
“Well done, Bard, that was amazing,” said a voice.  
“You’ve done Girion proud!” said another. Men seemed to be queuing up to shake Bard’s hand, to pat his shoulder and congratulate him. Morag on the other hand remained quite forgotten. She climbed slowly to her feet and looked out at the burning remains of the town. Gone, all of it was gone. Faint light told her sunrise was close at hand. It began to illuminate the land…including the Lonely Mountain, Erebor. If Smaug had woken, had come down to Esgaroth and reduced it to ashes, what had he done to the Dwarves?

The barges and boats returned to the shore as the daylight began to take its strong hold on the land. Many it seemed had perished in the flames, every other family had lost someone. Some had managed to save provisions, food and blankets and the like. But for the most part, there was nothing. Morag threw herself into helping Bard in preparing people to journey out to nearby farms to beg for food. She helped divvy up what little supplies there were amongst the people, but she could barely suppress her disgust when the Master sent his little weasel, Alfrid, to procure a tent solely for himself. Someone had had a supply of small tents meant for soldiers on their barge and had given them to be set up to shelter the very old and the very young. And now the fat glutton was resting in relative comfort whilst Morag had to try to fit extra people in tents meant for no more than six and were already fit to burst. But she didn’t complain. She had no right to, not when Bard was working tirelessly beside her, voicing no complaint of his own. When someone came back with a brace of rabbits, she gladly volunteered to skin them and prepare something to eat. Cooking was one of the few ‘domestic’ chores she was good at according to Halbarad, which she assumed meant she could make a stew without burning it. She felt immense satisfaction in sending Alfrid to the back of the line when he tried to fill the huge bowls of the Master first. But all throughout the day, she saw no sign of Bofur, Oin, Fili and Kili. There was no sign of Tauriel either, but Bain, Sigrid and Tilda were all safe and well. They had no idea where the Dwarves and the She-Elf had gone either, though they had the most amazing tale of the Elves coming to their rescue. Sigrid practically swooned when she told them about Legolas. Morag had to fight the urge to roll her eyes at that point. She made no mention of her own encounter with Legolas. As the sun set that first day after Smaug’s attack, Morag felt exhausted. She hadn’t slept, barely eaten and would have taken a night watch if Bard hadn’t physically picked her up and put her on a blanket. She was too tired to even fight back.

The following day, she was awoken by Bard shaking her awake.  
“You have to come see this,” he said before sweeping back out the tent. Morag scrambled to her feet and followed him, not feeling better for the good nights sleep. Her sleep had been restless and her stomach felt unsettled. As she emerged, she saw it, what had Bard so excited. A large raft, laden with boxes, crates and chests was being steered towards them.  
“Apparently it came down-stream overnight,” Bard said, “Some of the fisherman spotted it just before dawn and sent for bargeman to steer it in.” The people were crowding around the edge of the lake but moved when they saw Bard and Morag approaching. As the raft got close, Bard jumped on it and Morag followed. Everyone seemed to have accepted that wherever Bard went, he had Morag close behind. Bard began to look over the crates.  
“These are from the Elves,” he said, “Look, the sigil of King Thranduil.” Morag’s gut clenched at the name. Bard pulled one of the boxes open.  
“It’s food!” he cried, “There’s clothes, and herbs for medicine too! It appears we still have friends somewhere.”  
“Food?” the people began to chatter, “The Elves have sent food!” Strong men began rushing forward, Bard quickly dividing them up to be in charge of food, clothes and medicine.  
“Morag,” he said, “Take these, give them to all the people with burns.” He threw a small bag to her.  
“It’s iceleaf,” he said, “It helps with dragonfever.” Morag nodded, jumping off the raft and back to shore. Two bouts of sickness were running rampant through the camp. The first was dragonfever, a hallucinating illness brought on by contact with the flames of a dragon. The second was a stomach bug that had been working its way round the population as they do and had been exacerbated by the now crowded conditions.

Morag ran to the tent where they were treating the burn victims and was soon put to work, stewing the leaves into a tea and beginning to take it to the people who needed it most.  
“You know, for an outsider, you’re doing an awful lot,” a slimy voice said. Morag glanced over her shoulder.  
“Monobrow,” she said, smirking when Alfrid frowned.  
“What’s your stake in all this?” Alfrid spat, “Bard going to make you his little Queen?”  
“What are you talking about?” Morag asked, refilling the cup and moving on to the next patient.  
“I’m just saying you two are awful cosy,” he said, “And it’s no secret that the people are favouring him at the moment.”  
“It’s not like that,” Morag said, “Bard and I are just friends. You know, those things you don’t have any of.” Alfrid snorted and bent down next to her.  
“There’s something familiar about you,” he snarled, “I’ve seen your face somewhere before, I know it. I’m gonna find out who you are and what you’re doing here.”  
“I’m helping save your people,” Morag said, “It’s what I do.” And it was true, the Dúnedain responded to calls for aid in many shapes and sizes. A horse whinnied outside, drawing Morag and Alfrid’s attention. He stormed out the tent, headed straight for his Master whilst Morag glanced around. She soon spotted the horse and recognised its rider; Legolas. He was speaking quickly with Bard, gesturing towards the tent as he did.  
“Legolas!” a voice called. Tauriel came running in from the north. Where had she been? Legolas looked happy to see her, embracing her with one arm before drawing her into his discussion with Bard. Morag swallowed. Was Legolas telling Bard what she had done? Was he telling Bard he had been harbouring a criminal? She slunk back inside and started giving out the tea again until Bard walked in.  
“Are you alright?” he asked, “You look rather pale.”  
“I’m fine,” Morag lied and continued to give out the tea, “What was the Elf telling you?”  
“Nothing much,” Bard said, “He asked what had happened and if there was more aid the Woodland Realm could offer. Then his friend showed up and they’ve now ridden off together.” He observed her quietly for a moment.  
“Morag, are you sure you’re alright?” he asked. She nodded.  
“I’m fine, I just need to keep working,” she said, carrying on. But her gut twisted. Legolas was going to come back, he was going to come looking for her now he knew where she was. She threw herself back into working, giving out medicine, helping prepare food, fetching firewood, all the while trying to forget the fact that she was going to have to leave or face the wrath of the Elves. It was past midnight before she finally threw herself down on the blanket beside Sigrid and Tilda. But it was still over an hour before she could sleep. Her mind kept wandering to Erebor, wondering if Balin and Bilbo were still alive or not, wondering what sort of fate had befallen them.

Life seemed to have started without her when she opened her eyes the next morning. The tent was empty save for one nursing mother and there was a ruckus happening outside. She climbed to her feet and looked outside. There were Elves everywhere, handing out food, clothes and blankets. Morag’s breathing shook. She had to go. One of them was bound to recognise her. Sigrid was hurrying past.  
“Sigrid,” she said, “Where is your father?” She had to say goodbye at least.  
“He’s in the tent with the Elven-King,” she said.  
“Wait, the Elven-King?”  
“Yes, King Thranduil,” Sigrid said, looking at Morag curiously, “I saw him myself.”  
“Son of a bitch,” Morag whispered. She looked around, spotting a large tent in the middle of a brand new camp. She started heading for it.  
“Where are you going?” Sigrid called after her, but Morag didn’t listen. She stormed through the mass of people, past men and Elves. He wasn’t dead, Thranduil was still alive. The past five days…all the guilt and the secrecy were for nothing. The bastard was still alive. She didn’t stop, not even when an angry group of Lakemen who were arguing about confronting the Master blocked her path. She just shoved her way through and into the Elves camp.

She strode up to the large tent, which had two of the green banners of Mirkwood flying from the top. Two guards stood by the entrance but did nothing to stop her entering. Once inside, she froze. Bard stood to one side, listening as Thranduil spoke to him. Thranduil. He still looked as perfect as ever, his deadly charm still intact. In fact, the only evidence that he’d been injured was a faint line on his forehead where the cut was still healing. He was alive! She’d been beating herself up over nothing. A large table dominated the centre of the tent, an empty wine bottle sat on it. She picked it up, rage boiling in her blood.  
“You son of a bitch,” she growled before hurling it at the Elven-King’s head. He dodged the bottle at the last second so it flew past and shattered on the tent pole behind him. Bard looked over his shoulder at her in surprise.  
“Hello Morag,” Thranduil said in a low voice.  
“You son of a bitch!” Morag said, pointing at him as she walked around the table, “I thought you were dead!”  
“Yes, I can see why you thought that,” Thranduil said, anger in his voice, “What with striking me on the head and leaving me bleeding on the floor!”  
“You backed me into a corner that I couldn’t get out of!” Morag countered, “I acted on instinct! I had no choice! I thought you were dead!”  
“You always had a choice,” he countered as Bard stood, watching uncomfortably, “You were not a prisoner. If you wanted to leave, all you had to was say so!”  
“Fuck you! I checked your pulse! You weren’t breathing! I thought you were dead!” Morag screamed as she tried to fight back tears, “I grieved, I mourned, I let myself be so wrecked by guilt that I almost got myself killed! Someone give me a sword and I will do the job properly this time!” She raised a fist and hit him in the stomach. He barely flinched. She lifted it again but Thranduil seized her wrist before she could make a second blow.  
“Do not think to strike me again,” he growled.

He pushed her arm away and drew away from her slightly.  
“I would have given you everything,” he said, “Anything you asked for, and you repaid me by returning to the Dwarves who called you whore and traitor.” His face softened slightly, making Morag wince.  
“We captured one of the Orcs that tortured you as a child,” he said, “I beheaded him.” He turned and moved over to a chest at the end of the tent. He opened it and pulled something out before throwing it on the table.  
“Your belongings,” he said, “As you asked.” Morag went to snatch up her beloved coat.  
“On the condition…” Thranduil made her pause, “That you get out of my sight and never return.” Morag’s hand dropped again.  
“That’s it? What happened to stay with me?” she asked sharply.  
“You made it abundantly clear you had no intention of staying,” Thranduil replied, folding his arms, “You either stay, or you leave for good. There is no third option, Morag.” For a moment the pair of them stared at each other from across the table until Morag shrugged off the coat she had been given by Bard. He wanted her gone, fine. There was nothing keeping her here now.  
“Thanks,” she said to Bard as she pulled on her heavier, leather coat. Her sword, axe and coin purse were underneath it on the table. She didn’t say a word, and neither did Thranduil. He just stood there and watched as she put her sword belt back on, along with her small axe. Her coin purse was slid into an inside pocket. Her right hand slid into an outside one. It closed onto the contract she had signed long ago outside Bree. Exactly where she had left it.  
“So this is goodbye,” she said, glancing between Thranduil and Bard.  
“Goodbye Morag,” Thranduil said before turning away from her. She took a deep breath and turned to Bard. She nodded to him. He looked completely stunned. She couldn’t blame him though. He nodded back vaguely before she turned and left.

She walked away from the tent, unable to believe she was actually leaving. She didn’t feel relieved though. She felt like she wanted to scream, yell, punch something. She wanted to cry and laugh all at the same time. But she had her chance to get out. There was nothing now that could drag her back. She didn’t see who bumped into her and she just muttered a quick apology as she continued on her way. She headed back to the tent she had been staying in. She just wanted her blanket, something to provide a little extra comfort on the long journey down to Rohan. As she left, she noticed that the angry group from earlier were now confronting the Master. It had grown larger and moved closer. The people were angry that he gave no orders to defend Laketown, that he just ran as they had.  
“Why do I get all your blame?” the Master complained loudly, “For what fault am I to be deposed? Who aroused the dragon from his slumber, I might ask? Who obtained of us rich gifts and ample help, and led us to believe that old songs could come true? Who played our soft hearts and pleasant fancies? What sort of gold have they sent down the river to reward us?” Morag paused to watch. This should be good, he was going to try to lay the blame on Thorin.  
“Dragon-fire and ruin!” the Master cried, “From whom should we claim the recompense of our damage, and aid for our widows and orphans? You wish to have your blood repaid? Then start with her!” He pointed a fat finger at Morag who looked stunned. Then she saw it. A piece of parchment clutched in his hand. She reached into her pocket. Her contract was gone!  
“Start with her!” the Master snarled, “Morag, daughter of Thorin!”


	16. The Line of Durin

Whispers and murmurs passed over them as they stared at her.  
“You want blood from Oakenshield, start with her,” the Master said again, with more confidence, still pointing at her.  
“What are you bleating on about now?” Bard’s voice came as he rounded the corner of a tent, Thranduil and Legolas close behind him. Thranduil’s eyes instantly locked onto Morag, but there was no emotion in his gaze. It made her feel cold.  
“The Master here seems to think that we shouldn’t be blaming him for the loss of our town,” piped up one of the men, “He thinks it’s the Dwarves fault, and that she is the daughter of one of them.” Bard’s head turned to look at Morag briefly before looking back at the Master.  
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Bard said, “She’s far too tall to be a Dwarf, she’s human.”  
“No, I have proof!” the Master argued, waving the contract, “Alfrid found this in her pocket.” Morag took her chance and began to walk away as quickly as she could as Bard and the Master continued to argue. Bard had been silent on the Master’s inaction when Smaug had descended on the town, but she knew it had been simmering beneath the surface. She didn’t want to be there when it spilled over.

Within minutes, she was out of sight of the camp having rounded the still smouldering remains of Laketown and continuing eastwards along the shore. She had to move swiftly or she would have to spend more than one night exposed on the shoreline. The stony shore of the lake crunched underfoot as she trudged along. The dark stones were interspersed with the occasional glint of gold as coins washed ashore. They must have been wedged into Smaug’s scales and come unstuck when he hit the water. She didn’t stop to pick them up though. The people of Laketown needed them more. She could take care of herself out in the wild. She just had to make it to Rohan.

She walked for hours, the sun barely rising at all that day in cold November. She had to rub her hands together to keep warm and pause occasionally to start gathering firewood as the sun seemed to begin to set no sooner had it reached midday.  
“Morag!” a voice called after her a few hours after noon with the sun sinking rapidly, the sound of hooves on the shore line following, “Morag!” She glanced over her shoulder, wondering who had followed her so far. It was Thranduil, riding on his huge forest stag. What did he want? He’d made it clear he wanted nothing more to do with her so why had he followed her all the way out here?

She wrapped her coat tighter around her and continued to trudge along even when Thranduil slowed alongside her.  
“I thought you wanted me out of your sight?” she said.  
“Is it true?” he asked, “What was in your contract with the Dwarves, is it true?” Clearly there had been much discussion since she had left.  
“Which part?” she asked, “The part where they pay me a pittance for guiding them to the Lonely Mountain? The part where Thorin acknowledges that I am his offspring, or the part where he disinherits me and threatens me with death if I tell anyone?” Thranduil didn’t answer. She glanced up at him, feeling her chest constrict. Sat astride the giant stag and matching her pace, in his full armour and with a crown on his head, she saw what made him a King. He looked magnificent even with a dull, darkening sky behind him. But still, outside of the forest, he looked out of place. Too beautiful to be in her world, out amongst the humans, Dwarves and other races of the world.  
“Is Thorin Oakenshield your father?” he asked firmly. Morag looked back down at her feet for a moment.  
“Yes,” she said, “He is. My mother met him when he was travelling to a market to sell his smith work. There had been an increase in Orcs and Trolls along the road, and as my mother and her companions were heading that way, Thorin hired them to serve as guards. Apparently they really hit it off and on the last night, they spent it together. She gave birth to me about nine months later.”  
“Impossible,” Thranduil snarled, swinging the stag so it blocked Morag’s path.

He climbed down and grabbed her by the shoulders.  
“Half-Dwarves do not exist,” he said, “The Dwarves do not mix with other races, much less have children with them.”  
“Well then, I’m the exception that proves the rule,” Morag said, shrugging off his hands and walking around the stag, “Don’t you dare call my mother a liar.”  
“Morag,” Thranduil said, making her falter in her step, “You do not look like any Dwarf I have ever seen.”  
“Have you really seen me then?” Morag asked, turning around, “I want you to look very carefully now, Thranduil. Look at my hair.” His eyes flashed to the top of her head, taking in her black curls.  
“Now my eyes,” she said softly. His blue gaze slipped to hers.  
“Look familiar yet?” she asked, “Seen the colour in someone else’s perhaps?”  
“A lot of people can have black hair and gray eyes,” Thranduil said softly.  
“Look at my shoulders,” Morag said sighing, “Look, and you will see they are out of proportion to the rest of me, like they were built for someone else, someone with great upper body strength?” Thranduil’s eyes slipped from her face to her shoulders, a frown furrowing his brow.  
“No,” he said, “It cannot be true.”  
“And finally my feet,” Morag said, “I don’t wear these big boots to make a lot of noise. You know I have large feet for someone my size, you’ve seen them.”  
“No!”  
“Face the facts, Thranduil,” Morag shouted, “Look at me, and tell me you don’t see parts of me that are Thorin! I am a half-Dwarf! Possibly the only one to ever exist…and you fucked me, and you enjoyed it!”

Thranduil turned away from her and she felt rage boil up in her gut.  
“When I was sixteen, I had to line up with the boys to learn how to shave,” she said, her voice shaking, “Luckily, I grew out of it, but it was embarrassing! Do you know what they used to call me, my people when they found out I was Thorin’s daughter? The Princess in Rags.”  
“Why all the secrecy?” Thranduil asked, looking back round at her, “I do not understand…”  
“I am half-Dwarf,” Morag said, “Do you think either of my parents peoples were or are happy about my existence? The Dúnedain tolerated me because my mother was the last royal remnant of Númenor, the last living descendant of Queen Tar-Miriel’s bastard child, and that meant so was I. Thorin tolerated me because he still has a tender spot in his heart for my mother. But not me. I am a stain on his precious line of Durin. If Smaug leapt out of the water right now, and ate me whole, Thorin would probably thank him for ridding him of me.” She stepped towards Thranduil.  
“You can fight it all you want, Thranduil,” she said, “But you and I…we never should have happened. If Thorin had gladly acknowledged me…we never would have, would we?”  
“No, we would not,” he said after a moment.  
“Exactly,” Morag said, “Which is why I’m leaving now. You know the truth, and hopefully, that will keep us far enough apart that history doesn’t repeat itself.” She turned back around and started walking along the shoreline, wishing it wasn’t ending like this.  
“It would not have changed how I felt,” Thranduil’s voice carried clearly in the still air, making her heart skip.

Morag stopped, hearing the crunch of the loose stones under foot until he was right behind her. She turned, looking straight at his face, seeing his eyes become a swirling sea of different shades of blue. There was a little anger, some sadness, regret perhaps. A myriad of emotions were hiding behind those stormy blue orbs.  
“You are still the same woman who intrigued me,” he said, his voice softer and his hand coming up. The backs of his fingers stroked against her cheek.  
“The same woman that I…made love to,” he said, “I did care for you, Morag, I want you to know that.”  
“You told me to go, to get out of your sight,” she said, trying to ignore the feel of his skin against hers and how much she had missed it.  
“I am allowed to change my mind when new information reveals itself,” Thranduil said, “I would not be a good King if I did not.” His hand left her face and he pulled her contract out of his belt. There were a few tears in it where it had obviously been snatched back and forth a few times.  
“Morag, you have been gravely wronged by these Dwarves, especially Thorin,” he said, “More than I had previously understood. Bard and I have come to a decision. The Dwarves are most likely dead, and with the dragon gone, the treasure is unguarded. We are to march to Erebor and take what rightfully belongs to us, including a decent share to serve as your inheritance.”  
“What claim do you have on the treasure?” Morag asked, reaching for the contract. Thranduil pulled it just out of her reach.  
“Something…precious of mine was in the Dwarves possession when the mountain was taken,” Thranduil said, looking away, “I would very much like to have it back.”  
“So, what do you want from me?”  
“Come to Erebor with us,” he said, “You can claim whatever you wish. And afterwards, I will assign you a guard, to help you get wherever you wish to go.”  
“Even if it is as far away from you as I can get?” she asked. Thranduil was silent for a moment, looking down at her. He lowered the contract, placing it in her hand.  
“Yes, if that is your wish,” he said, a hint of sorrow in his voice.

Morag took the contract, returning it to her coat pocket as she studied him. He was fighting hard to keep his expression neutral, she could see it, a muscle in his cheek was twitching. A little voice told her that going back with him would be a bad idea. He had admitted to caring about her, there was affection there and that was a dangerous road to tread. Her thoughts then turned to what he was offering. A share in Erebor’s treasure. It was no secret the Dúnedain were not financially set. A share in the treasure would allow them to invest in new blades, some more armour and horses. It would be a fine thing to return to her people with the funds to renew their cause, to replenish the guard around the valley of Imladris, to help keep Aragorn safe until he was grown.  
“Fine,” she said, “I’ll come back. But you and I need to stay away from each other.”  
“Agreed,” Thranduil said.

Morag turned and started heading back towards Esgaroth, Thranduil walking by her side. He let out a sharp whistle and the stag began to plod along beside them.  
“Where is your guard?” Morag asked, “In your halls, you had guards at every entrance.”  
“Legolas suggested it, but I did not want to leave you alone any longer than was necessary,” Thranduil said, “They are no doubt on their way, but alone on Beridaur…” He paused and reached up to scratch behind the stag’s ear, making it snort and make happy noises.  
“He and I can move far swifter alone than with an armed guard,” Thranduil said. The pair of them walked slowly back along the shore in the fading sunlight. Thranduil made no attempt to rush her or suggest that they ride back. They said nothing as darkness crept over the land. It was only when the sun had set that the world seemed to become noisy. Birds screeched, insects buzzed, and far away in the distance, thankfully downwind, Morag was certain she heard wolves of some kind. Thranduil must have heard them too because he increased his pace at the same time.

They were almost halfway back when Morag misplaced her foot on a loose stone. Her foot slipped from under her and she crashed onto her side with a thump. She’d barely had time to register how she’d ended up on the ground when Thranduil’s hands had closed around her arms and he was easing her up.  
“Are you alright?” he asked, “Are you hurt?”  
“No, I’m fine,” she answered. She looked up and saw his face, lit up in the moonlight. The memories of their time together in his halls rushed back to her. Had it really been a week ago? It felt like a lifetime. She was back on her feet and steady but he still held her. She could hear the subtle change in his breathing. The memories were still fresh for him too. Her hands rested on his strong arms, gently squeezing, feeling the hard muscles beneath his skin. And she regretted. She regretted how she had left things between them. Trying to sneak away had been cowardly. If she could go back and do things differently, she would. She would never have tried to escape with the Dwarves, she would have stayed longer, stayed with Thranduil and enjoyed the feeling of his protection and his affections a while. A while longer, in his arms and in his bed, safe and warm.  
“I’m sorry,” she said quietly, “For what I did. I shouldn’t have done that, I owed no loyalty to Thorin and the others.”  
“Then why did you?” Thranduil asked, a faint quiver in his voice as he pulled her a little closer towards him.  
“Because I was afraid,” Morag admitted.  
“Of what?” he asked, his head dipping lower.  
“Falling for you,” she whispered just as his lips met hers.


	17. The Dreams

Morag didn’t want to admit it, but she had missed this in the week they had been apart. Thranduil’s kisses had always been soft and reassuring with a sharp edge of yearning, and this one was no different. Every time she thought he was going to pull away and end the kiss, he renewed it with a gentle nip or a swipe of his tongue against hers. But at the same time, she wanted to tread carefully. She thought she had killed him, and just this morning she had threatened to finish the job. And he seemed to have forgiven her for it for reasons only known to him. She felt his fingers weave themselves into her hair as he pulled her closer with his other hand on her hip. She wanted to rid him of his armour, to feel his body against her and possibly even him inside her once more. His fingers dug into her side for a brief moment before he pulled away with a groan.  
“We will not be alone for much longer,” he whispered against her lips before straightening up. Morag listened and heard the sound of the loose stones of the shoreline being walked over. His guard had finally caught up with them. Thranduil whistled and Beridaur, his stag, trotted over from where he had been grazing.  
“Morag, we will reach camp more swiftly if we ride,” Thranduil said.  
“You didn’t seem so eager before now,” she replied.  
“That…” Thranduil faltered as a voice called out in Elvish to him. He replied in a sharp tone before turning back to Morag.  
“Morag, please,” he said, holding a hand out towards her. She took it, allowing him to lift her up onto Beridaur’s back, something she never could have done under her own power.

By the time the twelve Elven soldiers on horseback that formed the guard, had caught up with them, Thranduil had seated himself behind her.  
“My King,” one of the soldiers, a Captain, asked, “Are you well?”  
“Aye,” Thranduil responded, using his heels to prompt Beridaur into movement, “Let us hasten back to the camp. There are wolves about.” He pulled Morag in close to him, her head just tucking under his chin, his arm resting around her waist. The guard distributed themselves around the stag, making Morag feel self-conscious. Any sideways glance, and they would see the way Thranduil was holding her. The way his fingers were flexing on her side, sliding under her clothes to find her bare skin. She took a deep breath, willing her heart to slow down but with little luck. The movement of Beridaur pushed Thranduil against her and she could feel his length, semi-hard, against her back. He had missed her too it seemed. The stag stumbled a little over the uneven ground, making Morag slip slightly. Her hand flew out, grasping Thranduil’s leg to stop her fall. She heard his breath hitch in her ear and he hardened slightly against her. Morag closed her eyes. This was going to be a long ride.

*

Most of the refugee camp was asleep by the time they returned, of those still awake most were Elves with a few of the Lakemen aiding them. The guard escorted them through until they reached Thranduil’s tent. He promptly swung himself down.  
“You are all dismissed until morning,” he said, reaching up to help Morag down.  
“But Prince Legolas wishes to see you…” started the Captain.  
“And I do not wish to be disturbed,” Thranduil interrupted, lifting Morag down and setting her on her feet, “My son can wait until morning.”  
“Very well,” said the Captain. Thranduil didn’t say another word. He just turned, his hand on Morag’s back, escorting her into his tent.

As soon as they were inside, and out of sight of the others, he turned her around and kissed her again, crushing her against him. His hands began to pull at her coat as he walked her backwards behind a screen partition. Her coat dropped to the floor along with his cloak as she found the fastenings to his armour and began to undo them. It fell to the ground with thuds, joining two pairs of boots and sword belts. Down to shirt and pants on them both, Thranduil wrapped an arm around her waist and lifted her up as he turned to sit on the bed that was behind the partition, Morag in his lap. He began to whisper things to her in Elvish, soft endearments and whispers of ‘I missed you’ ghosting over her skin. His hands disappeared under her shirt, smoothing up her sides to cup her breasts. Thranduil groaned at the feel of their familiar weight, or possibly the feel of Morag’s fingertips on his ears.  
“Ada!” the shout made the pair break apart, “Ada!” Legolas didn’t sound happy.  
“You should go see him,” Morag said, “He’s your son after all. I should find somewhere to bed down for the night.” She climbed off his lap and bent down to pick up her sword.  
“Stay here,” Thranduil said, standing up and straightening his clothes, “There are a few amongst the Lakemen who do not seem to understand that you and the Dwarves have parted ways, some were still calling for your blood this afternoon.” Morag glanced at the bed behind him before looking back up at him.  
“You know I am not trying to trick you,” Thranduil said, “You will be safest here, Morag. There will be guards outside at all times.”  
“I can look after myself,” Morag said.  
“I am sure you can,” Thranduil said, a faint smile on his face, “But for my peace of mind, you owe me that much.” Morag locked eyes with him for a moment, but Thranduil didn’t blink.  
“Fine,” she said, “Besides, sleeping with you again would probably be a bad idea.”  
“Indeed,” Thranduil said, starting to pull his boots back on, “I shall have to thank Legolas for stopping us from making such a foolish mistake.” Morag nodded and watched as he finished pulling on his boots and left.

She looked at the bed, thinking about how she could have been in it, entangled in Thranduil’s body once again. No. It was a stupid idea. Thranduil was right. Legolas had timed that perfectly to stop them making another mistake. This was it. She had to make a stand here. She wasn’t going to fall for the Elven-King any more than she already had. She was going to keep her head above water until all this was over. Then she was going south, finding her kin and going home. And she was going back over the Misty Mountains and never setting foot on the eastern side ever again. And she would never see Thranduil again, and maybe, just maybe, she would meet the end of her days with just the fond memory of the time she spent a week in an Elf-King’s bed.

She looked down at the sword-belt and coat in her hands. She took her sword from the belt and slid it underneath the pillow. Just in case Thranduil got any ideas when he came back. She put the belt and coat over her boots before climbing into the bed. It was cold, and Thranduil clearly hadn’t slept in it yet as it didn’t smell like him. But it was soft and comfortable, and she was more tired than she had realised.

*

_Her dreams that night were broken and fractured. First, she saw her mother’s face, from a very long time ago, when Morag was about twelve years old. They were sat on a rolling green hillside, not far from the Valley of Imladris._  
_“Do you remember when we were captured, what the Orcs asked us?” her mother asked._  
_“Yes, Mama,” Morag answered, “Where is he?”_  
_“Do you know who he is?”_  
_“No.”_  
_“They were looking for your father,” Isrid said, looking down at her with a sad look on her face, “Thought they had picked up his scent. But they had picked up yours instead. Your father is not like us. He is not one of the Dúnedain, nor the race of Men. He is a Dwarf. You are a half-Dwarf, possibly the only one to exist, and that makes you very special, Morag.”_  
_“Why were the Orcs looking for him?”_  
_“His name is Thorin, but they also call him Oakenshield,” Isrid said, “He led his people in a war against the Orcs, and defeated them. The Orcs hate him, so you must tell no one outside of our people who he is. You cannot trust them. You are a daughter of Durin’s line, and there will be those out to kill you. I can teach you how to stay safe, how to check food and water for poison, who to ask for help. But you must listen to me!”_  
_“I will, Mama,” she said as blackness surrounded her._

_She felt safe, warm as the light returned. She was in Mirkwood, in Thranduil’s chambers, in his bed. He lay behind her, one arm over her waist, his face pressed against her neck. He was breathing deeply, taking in her scent as his hands caressed her, one leg pressed between hers. She remembered this, it was the last night she spent in Mirkwood._  
_“The sun will be rising soon,” he said, “And we have taken no rest.” She could almost hear the smirk on his face._  
_“And whose fault is that?” she asked, her mind a delightful cloudy haze. Thranduil’s response was to move his leg to press against her sensitive core. Morag hissed slightly and he stopped his movement._  
_“Forgive me, I have been too rough with you,” he said softly._  
_“No need to apologise,” she replied, “I liked it.”_  
_“I know,” he said smugly, nipping at her earlobe before rolling her onto her back. He leaned over her and kissed her gently as he opened her legs. He kissed down her neck and over her shoulders. Morag smirked as he then began to move down her body._  
_“Going to soothe the sting for me?” she asked._  
_“Mmhmm,” was Thranduil’s muffled response as he kissed past her navel. Morag took a deep breath just before his lips descended between her legs, his tongue coming out to tease her clit. One of Morag’s hands came up and tangled itself in his hair as his hot mouth soothed her aches, drawing circles around her clit, bringing her close to orgasm. She leant her head back, her eyes closed as she drew closer to that peak._

_“Morag, are you alright?” a voice made her open her eyes. She was still dreaming but this was no memory. She was sat in a forest, under bright starlight. Looking around, she saw she was surrounded by Elves. It was feast, food and wine surrounded them and soft music played. She turned her head and saw Thranduil sat beside her, wearing long silver robes, a crown of autumn leaves and berries on his head._  
_“Where are we?” she asked, “What is this?”_  
_“This, my dear, is the feast of starlight,” he said, “Have you forgotten already? I told you this morning, I would be bringing you as my guest. Did you hear what I said?”_  
_“I’m sorry, I was miles away,” she said._  
_“I said I have reconsidered Legolas’ request,” Thranduil said, looking over in the distance. Morag looked. Legolas was sat by Tauriel, sharing a glass of wine with her and laughing at some secret joke._  
_“I will allow him to wed her if that is what he wishes,” Thranduil continued, “I have not seen him this happy in centuries.”_  
_“That is very good of you,” she said as an Elf came hurrying up._  
_“My lord,” he said in a low voice, “The Dwarves have escaped.” Thranduil looked out over his feasting people._  
_“Find them,” he said._

_*_

Morag awoke with a start to see sunlight seeping under the edges of the tent. She could hear someone moving around on the other side of the partition. Her sword remained under her pillow but her legs were tangled in the blankets. Clearly her body had been as restless in sleep as her mind had been. She freed her legs from the bed covers and got up, stretching as she walked around the partition. The large table that dominated the tent had been set for breakfast and seated around it was a very sullen looking Legolas, Thranduil and…  
“Bard,” Morag said, surprised slightly to find the bargeman breaking his fast with a King.  
“Good morning, Morag,” Bard said, leaning back in his chair, “I think you and I have a lot to discuss.”

 

 

 


	18. The Journey North

Morag leant against a tree, wiping the side of her mouth on the back of her hand, trying to catch her breath.  
“Morag!” Bard’s voice sounded, “Morag!”  
“I’m fine,” she called back over her shoulder. She heard the sound of footsteps over the frosted earth as the Lakeman approached her.  
“Are you sure?” he asked, “You….ergh…”  
“Yeah,” Morag said, “Porridge, it’s not any nicer the second time around.” She wiped her forehead on her sleeve. Bard rested the back of his fingers against her forehead.  
“You don’t have a fever,” he said.  
“I’m not sick,” she said, “I just ate something bad.” She turned and began to head back.  
“No one else has been sick,” Bard said, following her as she began to rejoin the column of people walking north.   
“Well then, I just ate something that disagreed with me,” Morag said as she joined the crowd. 

  
After several days camped on the lakeside, the decision had been reached that the best course of action was to move north to Dale. The walls were still partially intact as were many of the buildings. They would provide decent shelter for the people of Laketown over the winter. There was no time to rebuild now. Especially after the first frost had descended overnight. The Elves were coming too. Thranduil still had some claim to part of the treasure, though he had so far declined to reveal what it was, and he had also promised aide to the Lakemen to repair the city walls, a job that would go much quicker with Elves than it would with just humans. Elves had the strength of several men and could go days without sleep. They could have the entire city wall repaired within a month, or so their King reckoned. So, the survivors had packed up what they could and begun the journey. Scouting parties were travelling ahead, on the lookout for any foul creatures that would waylay the people, but still a tense feeling lay over them, and it was all coming from the Elf-King.  
Even Beridaur, the great forest stag, seemed to be in a foul mood, stomping past Bard and Morag as Thranduil made his way up to the head of the column. The pair watched in silence as the King passed.  
“Have you spoken to him yet today?” Bard asked in a low voice.  
“No,” Morag replied, “He hasn’t been very talkative.”  
“So, you don’t know why Legolas left then?”  
“Something about banishment and Tauriel,” she said, “But I was half-asleep and they were trying to be quiet. When I came outside for breakfast this morning, I saw Legolas and Tauriel go galloping off together. That was when he went quiet.”  
“And you don’t know how to make him talk?”  
“Oh, I know,” Morag said, “I know how to make him talk, only problem is I said I wouldn’t do that again.”

She groaned and clutched her stomach, stumbling back out of the column and for a nearby bush. She was doubled over, heaving at the side of the small road when she felt Bard pull her hair back for her.  
“And you say you’re not sick,” Bard could just be heard over the sound of vomit splattering on the ground.  
“What is wrong?” Thranduil’s voice came over the sound of hooves on the hard ground.  
“It appears Morag has eaten something that doesn’t agree with her,” Bard said, “This is the third time this morning.”  
“I’m fine!” Morag insisted before retching again. She heard the brief thud of Thranduil climbing down from the stag and she stood up straight. He immediately put his hand to her forehead, making her roll her eyes.  
“I don’t have a fever,” she spat, “I just ate something funny.”  
“I doubt it,” Thranduil said, “Come with me.”  
“No, I’m fine,” she said.  
“Clearly, you are not,” Thranduil said.  
“I don’t need your help, Thranduil,” Morag said.  
“I am not offering,” Thranduil said, seizing her arm and pulling her along. Morag dug her heels in to try and resist but the Elf-King was much stronger than she was. When she wouldn’t walk, he hauled her over his shoulder.  
“Put me down!” she shouted, trying to kick him in the chest but his arm was already clamped over her legs, “I am not an invalid!”  
“You are not well,” Thranduil said firmly as he marched past Lakemen and Elves, all of whom were staring, “And if you will not willingly walk to get medicine, I will carry you.”

Morag groaned and thumped him in the back which didn’t seem to affect the Elf-King in the slightest. She looked behind to see Bard grinning. She made a gesture that made it perfectly clear he would regret it if he kept laughing. Thranduil covered the length of the travelling crowd easily on his long legs until they made it almost to the front, where the supply carts were. He shouted in Elvish to one which pulled over to one side immediately. Two elves, one male, the other female, were driving and both jumped down as soon as they came to a stop. The male ran to the back, letting it down for Thranduil to drop Morag down. She landed on her bottom, a little ungracefully.  
“She has been sick three times today,” Thranduil said, “See that she is made well again.” The she-elf nodded before smiling at Morag.  
“Hey,” Morag said, nodding at her as Thranduil climbed onto Beridaur (who had been following them).  
“You have been sick three times?” the She-Elf said.  
“Yes,” Morag said, watching the other Elf as he began to pull herbs out of a bag.  
“When did you last eat?” the She-Elf asked.  
“This morning, before camp packed up,” Morag answered, still watching the other Elf.  
“Are you with child?”  
“What?!” Morag spluttered, turning back to the She-Elf. A glance to the side told her that Thranduil was watching the exchange.  
“No,” Morag answered firmly, “Definitely not.” The She-Elf nodded before speaking to her companion who was crushing herbs in a pestle and mortar. He then added it to some water in a cup and mixed it together.  
“Drink quickly,” he said, offering it to her. Morag took the cup and drank the whole thing. It tasted vile.  
“I think I’d rather vomit,” she said.  
“It will help settle your stomach,” the She-Elf said, “Come see me again if it continues.” The Elf began to pack up his herbs as Morag jumped down from the cart.  
Bard strode up to her as she rejoined the column, Thranduil moving on now that she had been seen to.  
“Throwing you over his shoulder was a little much,” he commented.  
“It’s me we’re talking about,” Morag said, still trying to work the bitter aftertaste of the Elvish medicine out of her mouth, “If he hadn’t have carried me, I’d still be back there throwing up.”  
“What was the shouting about?” he asked.  
“Oh, she asked me if I was pregnant,” Morag chuckled, “Not likely!”  
“But I thought you and….”  
“No,” Morag said, “I…I’ll be honest Bard, between you and I, I don’t think I can.” Bard just looked at her in silence as they trudged on.  
“Whether Half-Dwarfs can’t, or it’s a remnant from when I was captured by Orcs as a child,” she explained, “I’ve never even had the thought that I might be pregnant. And I’ve had lovers, some for months at a time. Not even once have I been late. I’m getting on a bit in years now to be having children anyway.”  
“Not by Dwarf standards,” Bard said, “You’d be just the right age, for having your first, I reckon. With Dwarves living upwards of two centuries.”  
“Maybe,” Morag said, “But I’m not, I’m certain of it.”

*

  
They stopped to make camp overnight, almost three quarters of the way to Dale. They found a place under a rocky outcrop that would provide enough shelter from the weather for one night. Progress had been slow, with the old, young and sick. The whole day had seemed to drag even more when the Master had begun to complain about his gout loudly to anyone who would listen. A guard of Elves and Lakemen was stationed about the overnight camp and several fires were lit. Morag was sitting beside one with a few friendlier Lakemen including Percy and Bain when their conversation suddenly hushed, all of them looking at something behind her. A shadow moved over Morag. She bent her neck backwards to find Thranduil standing over her.  
“How are you feeling?” he asked.  
“Better,” she answered, turning back to the thin stew that was dinner, “Dinner tastes off though. When were these rabbits caught?”  
“My Da and I caught them this morning before we left camp,” Bain answered.  
“You’re a growing lad, you’ve got hollow legs,” Morag said, “You eat this. I can’t.” She handed her bowl to him, which the young boy took eagerly.  
“Like father, like son,” she said, “Your Da wolfed down half my breakfast like that this morning.” She laughed and so did Bain before his gaze fell on the Elf-King.  
“I…I think I’m going to go find Sigrid and Tilda,” Bain said, standing quickly, spilling a little of the stew before hurrying off.  
“Yeah, I think I hear my wife calling me,” said Percy, “Lads.” He and the other men hurried off as well, leaving Morag shaking her head in disbelief. Thranduil sat down on the ground next to her.  
“Anything I can help you with?” she asked.  
“There is something,” he said, “Tell me, how exactly did the Dwarves get out?”  
“Haven’t been able to figure it out, huh?” Morag said, silently wishing Bard wasn’t on guard duty. Thranduil nodded.  
“The only explanation I could come up with was you retrieved the keys and freed them,” he said, “But there was not enough time for you to get to the cellars, retrieve the keys, go to the cells, free them and return to the cellars in time for Tauriel to discover their escape when she did.” Morag grinned. That little sense of power, knowing something he did not, it gave her a little rush.  
“Have you ever heard of a Hobbit?” she asked. Thranduil frowned and shook his head.  
“They’re small creatures, silent as the grave,” she said, “And they can pass by Elves unseen if they wish. There was one in the Company, his name was Bilbo…” she trailed off when she realized…Bilbo was with Thorin when they had gone to the mountain. If Thorin and the other Dwarves were dead, then Bilbo was most likely gone too.  
“Morag?”  
“It’s nothing,” she said, “Anyway, Bilbo was in your halls the entire time. He came to me that first night I spent with you and told me the plan.” She tried not to lick her lips as she thought about that first day. Making love three times in one day was definitely what stood out the most to her, second to the memory of him laying naked on the bed and feeding her fruit.  
“Morag?” he said softly. She looked up at him. He looked so out of place, sat on the ground in a desolated land. Was this how she had looked in his realm? So out of place with the surroundings? The touch of his hand as he moved an errant curl from her face made her jump backwards.  
“Don’t,” she said, “Just…don’t.”  
“Morag,” he said.  
“No, Thranduil,” she said, “We’ve been over this. We cannot keep doing this. You can’t keep doing this.”  
“And what is it I am doing that upsets you?” he asked. Morag sighed.  
“I don’t know,” she said, “You’re being you. All intense, and tall, and handsome. It…it’s taking everything I’ve got to try and keep sane around you, when all I want to do…” Her sentence stopped suddenly when she turned and realised how close he was. His heat was beginning to creep over to her.  
“What is it you want to do?” he asked, even though Morag was sure he knew the answer. ‘One kiss,’ she thought, ‘One kiss won’t hurt…will it?’ She leaned forward and kissed him. His hand instantly came up to her head, holding her in place. A distant wolf’s howl pulled her back to her senses, making her roll away from Thranduil and onto her feet.  
“When we get to Dale,” she said, clenching her fists to firm her resolve, “I’ll be bedding down somewhere else.”  
“You would be safer with me,” Thranduil said in a low voice.  
“I know, from the Lakemen,” she said, “But who is going to keep me safe from myself when I can’t resist you?” She turned and strode off to one of the other camp fires, once more angry at herself for breaking her own promises to herself.


	19. In The Mountain's Shadow

Morag could feel Thranduil’s eyes boring into the back of her head as they continued the march north. Their little exchange the night before had left the King in an even more sour mood. It hung over the column like a dark cloud, and she did her best to ignore it. But it was difficult, she felt agitated. She wasn’t sure if it was Thranduil’s constant attention or the fact she’d spent half the night with someone’s foot in her back, or even the fact that she wasn’t able to hold down her breakfast a second day in a row. She’d had to convince Tilda to distract Thranduil and her father long enough for Morag to see the Elvish healers again, with a few choice words to ensure they did not mention anything to their King.  
“You look tired,” Thranduil’s voice was close. She looked to her side in time to see the elk and his rider come up beside her.  
“Yeah,” she said.  
“You may ride with me,” Thranduil said in a tone that indicated he was not in the mood for games.  
“There are others far more tired than I,” she said, “Why don’t you walk and allow some of the children or the women with babes in arms to ride Beridaur?”  
“A King does not walk everywhere,” came Thranduil’s answer. Morag made a noise of disgust.  
“Well, I am not a King,” Morag answered, “Nor a Queen or a lady in fine silks. I am Morag of the Dunédain, I walk on my own two feet. Everywhere.”  
“Morag…”  
“I’m not riding with you,” Morag said as they approached the top of a small hill. The pace of the group had slowed. She skirted around them to get away from the Elf-King and found herself looking down on a city. Dale, the city laid to waste by Smaug.

Something stirred in the back of Morag’s mind, an old memory she hadn’t touched in a very long time. She hurried along the rough road, pushing her way through the crowd until she found Bard, staring at the city.  
“The walls look almost intact,” he said.  
“We’ll see better when we get closer,” Morag said, “I think there may be a few holes that need patching up.”  
“You sound certain,” Bard said.  
“I am,” she replied, “I think I’ve been here before.”  
“Here? To Dale? When?”  
“A very long time ago,” Morag said, “I’ll know for sure when we get into the city.”  
“Da!” a voice called out, Tilda running through the crowd, “Is that it? Is that Dale?”  
“Aye,” said Bard, wrapping an arm around his youngest, “That is where our family came from.”  
“Come on, Da!” Tilda shouted excitedly, pulling on Bard’s arm, “Let’s go!” Bard chuckled and allowed the small girl to pull him along.

As they walked through the main gate, Morag looked around. Now she saw it, she was certain. She had been here before. She stepped to one side to look at the gate. She smiled when she looked at the aged wood and saw ‘Mo’ carved into it.  
“Found something?” Bard asked.  
“I was right, I have been here,” she said, her fingers tracing over the childish carving.  
“Mo?”  
“My nickname as a child,” Morag smiled, “It’s what my mother used to call me. We came here a long time ago, looking for Thorin.”  
“Thorin?”  
“My mother…she was obsessed when I was younger, with finding him,” Morag said, “She seemed to think if she found him, that things would be different. That we wouldn’t have had to struggle.”  
“And you?” Bard asked. Morag was quiet for a moment, looking around at the increasingly familiar surroundings.  
“Perhaps,” she answered, “He told me once he held a tender spot in his heart for my mother. If we had found him whilst I was still a child, things could have been very different.” She was brought from her thoughts by the sounds of raucous laughter. She looked around the gate to see Beridaur plod through, half a dozen young children on his back in place of the Elf King. The children all looked ecstatic at riding the giant elk who was patiently walking along with no guidance save for Thranduil speaking softly as he followed alongside, one hand on the elk’s neck. Morag quirked an eyebrow at the sight as Thranduil turned to look at her.  
“Well,” she said, “At least something I say is sinking into that head of yours.” Thranduil said nothing except giving Beridaur the order to stop. The giant elk stopped and gently descended to his knees so the children could climb off him easily before running to their mothers. Thranduil looked as if he was about to speak when one of the Elves came rushing over and began to ask questions. Thranduil turned away from Morag to answer.  
“Come on, Bard,” Morag said quietly, “Let’s find somewhere to bed down.”

*

Morag took the first night watch, standing above the gate, looking out over the desolation around them. There were very few houses still perfectly intact. Most were serving to shelter several families with priority going to the old, the young and the sick. Most of the men had elected to remain outside with only fires for warmth, but Thranduil’s soldiers had distributed a small cup of warmed wine to everyone left outside. Morag sipped hers slowly, trying to make it last a long time. The Master had tried to take up residence in the former throne room. She had felt some small satisfaction that Thranduil had already claimed it. His tent had already been up by the time the fat old man and his weasel had found it. It was being used to store the supplies they had brought with them as well, meaning the old miser couldn’t even fit his own tent in. The people of Laketown had gladly looked the other way at that point. Bard had managed to find a small house where the lower floor was mostly intact though still a little cold. There was space on the floor of it for Morag when her watch ended, a space she was certain was next to Bard. The bargeman was trying to get closer to her, and she was trying to keep him at arm’s length. But with the Elf King also pressing for her attention, she was beginning to feel stretched.

Her gaze continued to be pulled back to the mountain in the distance, an uneasy feeling growing in her stomach the more she looked.  
“Something troubles you,” the sound of Thranduil’s voice made her jump.  
“You’re troubling me,” she snapped, “Don’t sneak up on people in the dark like that! I could have fallen off the wall.”  
“I would have caught you,” he stated.  
“I would rather fall,” Morag muttered before sipping her wine.  
“What troubles you?” Thranduil asked, changing the subject as he moved to stand beside her.  
“That,” Morag said, pointing towards the mountain, “Something is off.” She was met with silence.  
“What is it you want out of that mountain anyway?” she asked. Thranduil didn’t answer right away but Morag saw him tense.  
“You would not understand,” he said eventually.  
“I understand why Bard and his people want something,” Morag said, “I’m here because my people could use the money. But what could the Dwarves possibly have that you want?”  
“Gems, of pure starlight,” Thranduil said softly. His face softened in the faint torchlight as he looked north.  
“They belonged to my wife,” he said, “I gave them to her the day Legolas was born, to express my love. When…” His voice cracked a little as he spoke. Morag put down her cup and stepped closer, her hand touching his arm. She felt his arm tense slightly before relaxing.  
“When she died, I…I threw them in a box and left them,” he said, “They were buried in amongst her other possessions for centuries. By the time I felt ready to look at them and took them out again, they were tarnished, damaged, and we had neither the skill nor the resources to repair them. I gave them to Thrór to be repaired, to be restored. But his greed grew too great and he did not wish to part with them. They were still in his possession when Smaug came.”  
“You did love her, didn’t you?” Morag said. She remembered the way he had spoken about his wife back in Mirkwood. She was more than just his Queen, there had been some feeling there, even if the one he had wished to marry was far beyond his reach.  
“In a way,” he said, “She was kind to me, even though she knew I was as unhappy about the match as she. She supported me in every decision regardless and she asked me only for one thing.”  
“And that was?”  
“Legolas,” Thranduil said, “All she asked me for was a child, someone whom she could love unconditionally and eternally. When she came to me with that request, I found myself falling for her, and unable to refuse.”  
“Because she wanted a baby?”  
“She could have asked me for anything, and I would have given it to her,” Thranduil said, “And she asked me for something so simple and perfect. I could not help but love her for it. It was pure, and beautiful. I wanted to give something of hers to Legolas, for him to give to whoever he chose.  
“But you didn’t like the person he chose,” Morag reminded him.  
“I know,” Thranduil said, “And I was wrong to believe I could change his mind.”  
“Is that why he and Tauriel…” she stopped midsentence.  
“Morag?”  
“The braziers were just lit,” Morag said, staring at the two faint orange glows that had appeared on the mountain side, “The braziers outside Erebor were just lit…someone is alive in there.”  
“This complicates matters,” Thranduil said, stepping away from her. He turned and barked an order quickly in Sindarin. Two of his guard came running along the wall.  
“Elros, take Morags place until she returns,” Thranduil said, “Calad, fetch Bard to my tent immediately, and that miserable Master. Morag, with me.” Morag lent on the side of the wall, waiting for Thranduil to realize she wasn’t following. He was several feet away before it sunk in.  
“Morag, please,” he called. Slowly she stood up straight, draining the last of her wine and following him. One day, he was going to remember that he wasn’t her King.

When they arrived at Thranduil’s tent, in the former throne room, Bard and the Master were already there. The Master was dozing off in a chair but Bard looked wide awake and ready for action. Thranduil indicated for Bard and Morag to sit down before shaking the Master’s shoulder.  
“You are in my seat,” Thranduil said as the Master awoke with a jump. Bard and Morag quickly slid into the two remaining chairs as the Master climbed to his feet. By the time he had opened his eyes properly, every seat was occupied.  
“So what warrants one of your men banging on my door and waking my children in the middle of the night?” Bard asked calmly as the Master began to wander, looking for a chair.  
“The braziers of Erebor have been lit,” Thranduil said, “It appears some, if not all of, the Dwarves are still alive.”  
“Well, I guess we can’t just walk in and take what is ours then,” Bard said, glancing sideways as the Master perched himself on a small table, his fat backside dangerously close to knocking over some bottles of Thranduil’s prized Dorwinion.  
“Indeed,” said Thranduil, “At first light, we shall march on the mountain. Perhaps an army at their door will remind Thorin of his debts.”  
“If you go full force straight away, he’s just going to dig in his heels,” Morag said, “As much as I hate to admit it, I inherited Thorin’s stubborn streak and I can tell you it’s a mile wide. An army on his doorstep will gain nothing except for a lovely upclose view of the closed gates of Erebor. I hear the architecture was exquisite in it’s heyday.”  
“Then I am open to suggestions,” Thranduil said.  
“Perhaps just Morag and I should go,” Bard said, “He knows us, a lot better than he knows you. Morag is also his daughter, he may be more willing to listen to us than to an army.”  
“I don’t know how much help I’d be, Thorin was never exactly the caring, attentive father,” Morag said, “But it has more of a chance of working than an army.” There was a clunk and a smash. Thranduil groaned and rolled his eyes as Bard and Morag looked to find the Master had indeed knocked over a bottle of wine.  
“Do you really think just the two of you will have more of a chance of resolving this?” Thranduil asked Morag.  
“Yes,” she answered, “You being present will just set everyone on edge.”  
“Very well,” said Thranduil, “I want this resolved as quickly as possible…I cannot afford to lose any more wine.” He looked pointedly at the Master who had picked up one of the remaining bottles and proceeded to help himself, seemingly oblivious to the other three.  
“Try not to kill him when we go,” Morag said quietly.  
“I make no promises,” was Thranduil’s reply.


	20. Parley

Morag watched the snorting, champing horse from a wary distance.  
“I don’t think he likes me,” she said.  
“I would say the feeling is mutual,” Bard said from her side.  
“Care to swap?”  
“No,” Bard chuckled, shaking his head, “I quite like the horse King Thranduil has loaned me.” Morag shook her head and carefully approached the horse who reared a little as she got closer.  
“Easy, boy, easy,” she said gently, maintaining eye contact. Approaching slowly, the horse settled a little, still snorting and shaking his head irritably. The Elven stable-master Thranduil had brought with him had assured her that the horse was normally calm, but all of the horses had started acting agitated in the last couple of days. This one was just more nervous than most, but it was also the smallest and most suitable for Morag’s size. The stable-master had had no luck with getting close to it, so Morag had decided to give it a try.  
“Here,” Morag said, reaching into her coat pocket and pulling out a carrot. She snapped it in half and held one out to him. The horse settled a little more, sniffing intently at her hand.  
“There’s a good boy,” she said softly, “Good boy.” The horse stretched out his neck before nibbling at the carrot. Morag stepped in close, scratching the horse’s ears.  
“Good boy,” she repeated, “Oh, you like carrots from the King’s table, huh? Well, behave yourself today, and there will be plenty more.”  
“You have a way with animals,” Bard mused. Morag looked at him from over her shoulder.  
“This is how I tamed my first dog,” she said, “I was about twenty, he’d been following our camp for days. I threw him a few scraps every now and then. Mangy little mutt, but he was useful.”  
“Hunting?”  
“No, some of the men got a little handsy when they were drunk and didn’t understand the word ‘no’,” Morag said casually, “But my little Shield would rag at their ankles until they got the message. I loved that dog.”  
“What happened to it?”  
“Don’t know,” she said, stroking the now-calm horse’s muzzle, “I let the sons of Elrond borrow him for a couple of days, neither of whom would give me a straight answer when they came back without him. Almost fifty years later, they still won’t look me in the eye when I bring it up.”  
“What did they borrow him for?”  
“You know what? I can’t remember,” Morag said truthfully before turning back to the horse, “There now. All nice and calm. Good boy. Someone get me the reins.” The stable-master scuttled forward to saddle the horse ready for her as she stepped back.  
“Are you sure you want me there?” she asked Bard.  
“Yes,” he answered, “You know them better than anyone, even if you don’t like each other.”  
“Don’t like is putting it mildly,” Morag said, “I have no quarrel with the Dwarves anyway, it’s Thorin that’s the problem. When he’s not there, they are perfectly reasonable, pleasant people to be around.” Bard sighed.  
“You don’t have to come if you don’t want to,” he said.  
“No, I’ll come,” Morag said, “I just want to see that they’re alive.”

An hour later, Bard and Morag left the city gates, heading along the old, broken road north towards the mountain. The horse Morag was riding was still a little twitchy but nothing she couldn’t handle. Looking back, she could see Thranduil sat astride his elk, watching them, his army on the city walls.  
“They’re not going to like that,” she said to Bard. He nodded in agreement.

As they drew closer to the mountain, she could see the Dwarves had been busy, building a new gate for the mountain kingdom. It was built out of bits of rubble that had been carefully carved and shaped to form a solid blockade. The Dwarves were holed up nice and safe in there. It was going to be difficult to get them out.  
“Hail Thorin, son of Thrain,” Bard called.  
“Who comes before my gate?” Morag had never felt relieved to hear Thorin’s voice before. The cranky bastard was still alive.  
“It is I, Bard of Laketown, and with me, Morag of the Dunédain,” Bard replied, “Your friends.”  
“I see no friends,” Thorin spat, his head appearing over the top of the stone blockade, “I see a miserable bowman and a whore.” Morag could hear the laughter of the other Dwarves before they too looked down over the top of the barricade. She did a quick head count. Fourteen, all the Dwarves and Bilbo. She let out a sigh of relief, they were all alive.  
“I will not parley with a messenger of Thranduil, who has an army camped on my doorstep,” Thorin said.  
“Then will you speak with a leader?” Bard said, “Just you and I, speaking on behalf of our peoples.” Thorin looked down on them with contempt, his eyes looking at Morag before sliding back to Bard.  
“Send her away, I will not speak with her,” Thorin said, “And then I will listen to what you have to say.” The Dwarves slowly disappeared behind the stone. Bard cursed under his breath.  
“Go,” said Morag, “I’ll wait with the horses.” Bard nodded, swinging himself off the horse, Morag copying him. He handed the reins to his horse to her and strode over to the stone wall. Morag gently pulled the reins, leading the horses back over the small waterway. She looked back towards Dale.

The sun was rising, she could see it’s light reflecting off the armour of the Elves in Dale. It seemed so bizarre to be here, standing before the Lonely Mountain, so far from home. Why was she still here? She could have been halfway to Rohan by now if she could have just kept her hands off Thranduil for more than five minutes. She glanced over her shoulder. Bard was leaning down to a small gap in the stonework, talking to Thorin on the other side. A lot of things could have turned out differently, she realised. Starting with the way she had first met Thorin…

_She had stumbled slightly over the rough terrain, trying to keep up with Gandalf who strode over the land on much longer legs than hers._  
_“So, this Thorin Oakenshield,” she said, “Is he the one? The one whom my mother met?”_  
 _“If you are asking if he is your father, than yes,” Gandalf called back over his shoulder, “He is the one who sired you.”_  
 _“Does…does he know about me?” Morag asked. Gandalf paused and turned to look at her._  
 _“No,” he said, “He asked me to find your mother. As far as I can tell, they never crossed paths again, he never found out about you.”_  
 _“Maybe we should tie a bow around me before we give him that surprise,” Morag said. Gandalf chuckled._  
 _“You are your mother’s daughter,” he said, “Well, as she was before you were born.”_  
 _“You knew my mother?” Morag said, hurrying to catch up with him._  
 _“Oh, for a very long time,” Gandalf said, “She was young, and wild, and ready to face the world, much like you are.” Morag was shocked. Her mother had always seemed to stoic and calm, someone who considered every possible outcome before making a decision._  
 _“She…” she started. Gandalf chuckled at her confusion._  
 _“Come along, Morag,” he called, as they approached the outskirts of Bree, “They’re waiting.”_

_He led her to a small, dilapidated little shack, hardly big enough for Gandalf to stand up straight. It smelt damp, musty before Morag had even got in through the door, but she could feel a warmth. Someone had started a small fire. Gandalf had gone ahead before her. She hadn’t even stepped through the threshold when she heard a deep voice._  
_“Did you find her, Gandalf? Did you find Isrid?” Morag held her breath. She was about to meet her father for the first time._  
 _“No, I’m afraid not, Thorin,” Gandalf replied, “Isrid…lost her life eight years ago.” Morag stepped back and leant against the wall by the door, listening. She heard the pained breath that Thorin took in, and she felt her own heart make a sharp twinge at the memory of her mother._  
 _“So now what?” Thorin asked, “We have no guide…”_  
 _“Oh, we have a guide,” Gandalf said. Morag stood up straight, this was it._  
 _“Who?”_  
 _“Your daughter,” Gandalf said, “Morag.” She stepped in through the door. A small fire was burning in the centre of the room, and on one side of it, were two Dwarves. One was standing, he seemed tall for a Dwarf with long dark hair, another, with shorter, white hair was sat on an old log._  
 _“Morag,” Gandalf said, “Allow me to introduce Balin, son of Fundin, and Thorin Oakenshield, your father.” Morag looked at Thorin. She recognised certain features, like looking in a fractured mirror. She understood now where she got her dark hair from, and her grey eyes. Thorin seemed to be analysing her as well, looking for similarities between them. But he didn’t seem happy._  
 _“And what does she want for taking us there?” Thorin growled._  
 _“The usual fee,” Gandalf said._  
 _“And a title, I assume?” Thorin said, “A share in the treasure? A position in the family?”_  
 _“I have a family,” Morag said, “I don’t need another one. I’ll take you to Erebor, my mother told me once how much it meant to you.” Thorin turned to look at her in surprise._  
 _“She told you about me?” he still sounded angry for some reason._  
 _“Of course, she did,” Morag said, “You’re my father.” Balin cleared his throat._  
 _“Well, I think we have to rewrite the contract, Thorin,” he said._  
 _“Yes,” Thorin said, “We will.”_

Morag was brought from her thoughts by Bard’s hand on her shoulder.  
“Nothing,” he said, “He will give us nothing. No inheritance for you, none of what he promised my people.”  
“I told you he wouldn’t like have an Elf army so close,” she said, “I wouldn’t.”  
“He called you such names,” Bard said, taking the reins of his horse from her, “How could a father treat his only child in such a way?”  
“I don’t know,” Morag answered, “I don’t think he’s ever liked me.”  
“It’s still no excuse,” Bard said, helping her onto her horse before climbing onto his own.  
“Leave it, Bard,” she warned as they turned towards Dale.

Thranduil was waiting for them, outside the city gates.  
“And?” he inquired.  
“What do you think?” Morag said.  
“He will give us nothing,” Bard added.  
“Such a pity,” Thranduil said, “Still you tried.”  
“I do not understand,” Bard said, “Why? Why would he risk war?”  
“It is useless to reason with them,” Thranduil replied, “They understand only one thing.” He pulled his sword from its sheath, sending a jolt of fear down Morag’s spine as he looked at the blade.  
“We attack at dawn,” Thranduil said, turning his elk around and heading back into the city, “Are you with us?”


	21. Prepare For War

Morag watched as the old weapons were brought out of the armoury. Her gut churned. This was no army. These were desperate people, doing hash jobs of repairing what they could. Their confidence was being solely bolstered by the presence of the Elves. Something that wouldn’t help them if the Elves decided to charge. These fisherfolk had no hope of keeping up with Elves. They would get left behind, vulnerable to say the least. She took a deep breath, closing her eyes. She wished whatever it was that kept making her feel sick would go away.  
“Morag?” the sound of Bain’s voice made her open her eyes.  
“Bain,” she said, looking at the curly-haired young lad, “What can I do for you?”  
“I…I was wondering…” the boy stuttered before swallowing, “Will you teach me how to fight?”   
“Your father isn’t going to take you out there, is he?” Morag asked, staring at the boy. Bain shook his head quickly.  
“No,” he said, “He won’t let me come. But I want to know how to defend my sisters, if I have to.” She looked him up and down.  
“How old are you?” she asked.  
“Fifteen,” Bain answered.  
“If you were one of my people, you’d have been taught how to hold a sword when you were ten,” she said, “I can show you something, I guess. Come with me.”

She headed towards the armoury, easily slipping past the other people who were coming in and out. Bain was close behind as she scoured what had been left behind. She found two wooden shields leaning against a wall. They had a couple of notches missing along their edges but would serve their purpose. Morag passed them to Bain who stumbled slightly.  
“They’re heavy,” he said.  
“Yes, they are,” Morag said, “I’ll show you how to use that weight to your advantage.” She dug through a shelf laden with broken weapons, spear heads, scrams, and bits of leather until she pulled out two wooden training swords.  
“These will do,” she said, “Come along then.”

She led Bain to an empty street. There were too many people in the main square. She’d never be able to show him anything. She took one of the shields from him.  
“Ok, right or left handed?” she asked.  
“Er, well, left,” Bain said.  
“Alright then, sword in your left hand, shield in your right,” she said, putting hers down. She corrected his grips and his stance before picking them back up. She held her sword in her left hand so she was the mirror image of Bain. She lifted the shield so she was covered from shoulder to knee but let the sword hang low.  
“Right then,” she said, “Let’s see what you’ve got.” Bain lifted his shield so that his eyes were just showing over the rim, he lifted his sword over his head before shouting and rushing forward. Morag sighed and sidestepped him easily, smacking him on the back of the leg with the training sword as he went. Bain crashed into the wall of a nearby house and fell to the ground.  
“Do you know where you went wrong?” she asked as he climbed back to his feet. Bain shook his head.  
“Your shield should never go higher than your neck unless you are deflecting a bow,” she said, “Lifting it will sap your strength, as will swinging your sword up high. As for the shouting…well, I think you’ve been listening to too many stories.” Bain lifted the shield and sword again, but this time he didn’t lift them too high. He moved towards her again, slowly this time.  
“That’s better,” she said, “Running will sap your strength too much, makes it harder to compensate when your opponent moves suddenly.” Bain nodded as she began to slowly step to one side. He copied her movements.   
“I’m going to try to hit you with my sword,” Morag explained, “I want you to deflect my blows as best you can.” She swung for his lower right leg. Bain moved his shield to cover the area she aimed for but lost his grip and dropped it.  
“It’s alright,” Morag said, pulling the sword back, “Pick it up, keep going.” This time she aimed for his right arm, easily smacking him on the shoulder.  
“You need to be quicker than that,” she said. She made to hit him on the side. Bain moved his shield to cover himself, but too soon. Morag changed the angle of attack and caught him on the shoulder again.  
“We’re getting there but you have to move at the last minute, otherwise your enemy will change where they mean to strike you,” she said, “Let’s keep going.”

For an hour, they practiced the shield work, Bain soon learning how and when to move his shield to deflect her bows. He picked it up quickly and Morag was quite impressed. They’d even drawn a small crowd of the younger people of Laketown, the ones too young to take up arms, including Sigrid and Tilda.  
“Alright,” Morag said eventually, “Let’s try you doing a little sword work. Come on then boy, try to hit me.” She grinned, knowing that if the boy landed even a single shot, it would be a miracle. Bain began to copy what she had been doing to him but Morag was quicker, stronger and more practiced. In one instance, she even tossed the training sword up in the air, moved her shield to her left hand and caught the sword with her right just as she moved and smacked Bain right across the buttocks with it. Laughter rang out through the crowd as Morag grinned again.

After that, Bain seemed to focus more. He no longer underestimated her. His blows grew closer and closer to landing. They didn’t see that the adults were also beginning to filter through, investigating what had got the children all riled up. Bain began to pull his blows, much to Morag’s frustration.  
“Getting tired?” she snarled, trying to get a rise out of the boy.  
“No!” Bain snapped, his brow furrowing.  
“Come on now!” Morag called loudly, “Tapping on someone’s shield isn’t going to do much to save you. You’re going to have to hit them!”  
“But I don’t want to hurt you, Morag,” Bain said.  
“Shut up!” Morag said, “You snivelling little wretch.” She didn’t mean it, but she needed to push him into reacting. Bain looked hurt.  
“Don’t stand there and cry,” she snarled, “I said hit me!”  
“No!”  
“Hit me!” she screamed.

For a split second, she swore she saw something in Bain’s eyes snap. He let out a yell, took a large step forward. Slashing his sword backwards, he caught her shield with the hilt, yanking it of the way. Morag couldn’t do anything except blink as his shield came up towards her face before her vision went black.

When she came to, she was lying on the cobbled street, searing pain in her nose. She groaned a little. She heard wood clattering on stone and Bain appeared at her side.  
“Morag! Are you alright?” he asked, “I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to!”  
“How long was I out?” Morag asked as she sat up slowly.  
“Only a second,” Bain said, “I hit you and you went straight down. I’m sorry.”  
“No, that was good,” she said, “Very good, in fact. I didn’t see it coming.” She gingerly got onto her knees before leaning on Bain for support as she stood. She reached up and touched her nose, instantly hissing in pain.  
“I think you broke my nose,” she said.  
“Sorry,” Bain mumbled.  
“Not the first time,” Morag said, patting his shoulder. She pulled her hand back, seeing blood staining her fingers.  
“I think I need to go get this fixed,” she said, cupping her hand back under her nose. Bain put his arm around her waist and pulled her other arm over his shoulders.  
“You hit the ground pretty hard,” he said. Morag nodded, feeling the stream of blood from her nose grow.  
“Sigrid, get the swords and shields!” Bain shouted as he began to guide Morag back towards the main square.

Bard saw them first as they got back.  
“What happened?” he demanded as he strode over. Morag couldn’t answer from trying to stem the flow of blood.  
“I asked her to help me,” Bain said, “I wanted to learn how to defend Sigrid and Tilda. I got a bit carried away.” Bard made a low noise that sounded like a growl.  
“Go fetch warm water and some rags for the blood,” he said to Bain, taking hold of Morag’s shoulders, “The Elves should have some.” Bain nodded and ran off.  
“I want a word,” Bard said, pulling Morag over to some steps that lead to the old throne room. He pushed her down onto one as Bain came running back with some rags.  
“They said the water will take a minute, Da,” he said.  
“Good,” Bard said, “Go wait for it.”  
“But…”  
“I said, go!” Bard snapped. Bain nodded and hurried off. Bard turned his attention back to Morag. He moved her hand and placed a rag under her nose to stem the flow which was already beginning to slow. The blood in her hand splattered onto the stone step. Bard took two smaller rags and twisted them before pushing them into her nostrils. Bain returned with the water, Bard dismissed him straight away with a pointed look.

Wetting another rag, Bard began to mop up the blood staining Morag’s face and hand.  
“Care to explain what you were doing?” he asked. His voice was clipped, he was angry.  
“Your boy came to me, asked me to show him how to protect his sisters,” she said, her voice sounding peculiar due to the rags in her nose.  
“He doesn’t need to know,” Bard said.  
“Bard, he’s fifteen, he’s almost a man,” Morag said, “He wants to learn.”  
“And look what happened,” Bard said, “He’s broken your nose.”  
“So what? I’ve had lovers who were rougher with me than your boy,” Morag said, laughing a little. Bard didn’t seem amused.  
“He’s still my son,” Bard said, “I’ll decide when I want him to learn.”  
“He’s old enough to make his own decision,” Morag said, feeling her patience beginning to wear thin.  
“You are not his mother!” Bard said, “You can’t make decisions like that about him.”  
“I…I never said I could,” she spluttered, her control on her temper wavering, “He came and asked me for help, so I did.”  
“Well, you should have asked my permission first,” Bard snapped.  
“Did your wife?” Morag asked, losing patience with the circular argument, “Did she need to come ask the master of the house for permission to dust his mantelpiece? To wipe his children’s snotty noses?” Bard said nothing. He just put his hands on either side of her head and set her nose back in place. Morag let out a short sharp scream, being unprepared for the pain.  
“There,” Bard said, “All fixed.” He stood up and strode off. Morag closed her eyes. She’d lost her temper, and sorely regretted it now. She looked around but Bard had disappeared.

*

Morag waited for a couple of hours before heading to the house Bard had claimed. She wandered around Dale, trying to figure out what she was going to say by way of an apology whilst her nose throbbed. She knew she had touched a raw nerve with his wife, she remembered how he had spoken of her the first time they’d met. She had been wrong to bring it up, but she wasn’t going to apologise for helping Bain. The boy should know how to hold a sword already, how to carry a shield and defend himself. By next winter, he’d be considered a man, and a poor one at that without the basic skills she had shown him.

Approaching the door, she took a deep breath before knocking on it. The door was old and in need of repair, moving slightly in the frame as she knocked.  
“Bard,” she called, “Bard, please, I need to talk to you.” She was met with silence.  
“Bard, please,” she said again, knocking on the door.  
“He’s not in,” came a voice. Morag turned her head, not the least bit pleased to see Alfrid grinning at her. She was already agitated by the discomfort from her broken nose, he wasn’t helping.  
“Well where is he?” she asked.  
“Probably dealing with that beggar that came by,” Alfrid said casually.  
“Beggar?”  
“Yeah, an old man in raggedy robes,” Alfrid said, a smug grin on his face.  
“Wait, did he have a long grey beard and a pointy hat?” Morag asked.  
“Yes,” Alfrid said, his face falling.  
“Gandalf,” Morag muttered, “Where are they?” Alfrid didn’t answer. Morag covered the distance between them surprisingly quickly for someone of her stature, grabbing Alfrid’s collar and yanking him down to her height.  
“Where are they?” she snarled.  
“Th….the throne room,” Alfrid stuttered.  
“Good, now out of my way, you little weasel,” Morag said, shoving him to one side.

  
She stormed down the street. Oh, she had a few choice words for that wizard when she found him. He was the one who had come looking for her, he was the one who had stood back and allowed Thorin to treat her so badly, he was the one who had disappeared and left her to try to guide the Dwarves through the forest. Everything bad that had happened from the moment she had joined them was his fault. She hadn’t had much trust for wizards to start of with. They had no ties to the peoples of Middle-Earth, no loyalties, no roots. They came and went as they pleased and it was impossible to determine their reasons for doing anything. She didn’t trust them, not one bit. In fact, she was pretty sure that her joining the company may have been a test to see how far she could be pushed.

  
She ran up the steps to the throne room, into the hall and towards Thranduil’s tent. The guards moved to one side as she strode up to them. She burst into the tent, drawing the attention of Thranduil, Bard and…  
“Gandalf,” she said, her voice sounding strange, almost hoarse.  
“Morag!” Gandalf responded, looking surprised to see her, “What are you doing here?“


	22. Is This Goodbye?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Glorious naked Thranduil and smut for everyone!

“Morag, what are you doing here!” Gandalf spluttered, stepping towards her quickly. Morag stumbled backwards slightly, her anger towards the wizard suddenly forgotten.  
“I…” she tried to answer, flummoxed by the question.  
“The Dwarves left her behind,” Thranduil spoke calmly, when Morag couldn’t find her voice.  
“You are in grave danger,” Gandalf said, “You should not be here.”  
“Wait a minute, I’m confused,” Morag said.  
“Gandalf here, seems to think there is an army of Orcs on its way,” Bard said, “That the Dark Lord has returned and has sent the Orcs to end the Line of Durin.”  
“That would include me then,” Morag said. Gandalf blinked, looking between her and the others.  
“We know who Morag is,” Thranduil said, “We know that Thorin Oakenshield is her father, though he has yet to act like it.”  
“Ah, I see things have not improved then,” Gandalf said.  
“Oh no, they got worse in fact,” Morag said, starting to remember why she was angry with the old man, “I believe since we entered Mirkwood I have been called a whore about seventeen separate occasions, that I heard.”  
“I had hoped you were in the mountain as well,” Gandalf said, “Somewhere safe…but it is no matter. Morag, you must leave this place as soon as possible.”  
“I’m not going anywhere,” she replied, “Not until I know Thorin has returned what rightfully belongs to Thranduil and the people of Laketown. Not until I know he has kept his word. I don’t care if he doesn’t give me what I’m owed, but I will not let him break his promises to others.”  
“Morag, these Orcs will hunt you down and kill you!” Gandalf said, “You will be far safer back with your kin. Not even an army of Elves will stop these Orcs from hunting you down. Do you understand? As Thorin’s only child, you are the means for the Line of Durin to continue. Any children you bear will be of that Line. You need to return to your people where you will be hidden, kept safe.”  
“Rivendell,” Morag said, “You mean for me to be hidden in Rivendell.”  
“It is the safest place for you,” Gandalf said, “Its borders are well-protected by Elrond’s kin and the Dunedain.”  
“I will not go and wile away my years hiding in that valley!” Morag protested, “I will not cower and hide! I am a fighter, Gandalf, that’s what my mother raised me to be, to protect and serve the peoples of Middle-Earth wherever they require aid. And I am needed here! The Line of Durin will not continue through me! I will never be a mother, never!”  
“Your mother said the exact same thing to me only three months before she met Thorin!” Gandalf turned and barked at her. Morag stepped forward, ready to stand up to Gandalf but felt a hand on her shoulder. It was Thranduil. His touch felt comforting, warmth seeping from his fingers to her. Morag took a deep breath, trying to reign her anger back.  
“She told me she would never be a mother, because she did not want the royal blood of Númenor to continue from her,” Gandalf snapped, “Then the next time I saw her, she had you. You do not always get to stick to the path you choose. Now I am telling you, the best thing you can do, is leave this place. Go south, to your kin!”  
“I can spare some guards to help her on her journey,” Thranduil said calmly from behind her, a gentle squeeze on her shoulder, “I promised her that.”  
“Thank you, King Thranduil,” Gandalf said, “With the waning moon, it should be easy for them to move undetected. She should be able to make it to Rohan by the full moon.”  
“Wait, waning moon?” Morag said.  
“The full moon was ten days ago,” Bard said, “The night Smaug came.”  
“I missed it,” Morag said quietly. Gandalf turned back to Thranduil and began talking again but Morag didn’t hear it. Ten days….how had she lost ten days? No, she’d lost more. Two weeks…she should have started her bleeding two weeks ago.  
“Morag…” Gandalf’s voice broke through the haze that had descended in her mind. She blinked and looked up at him.  
“What is your decision?” he asked, “Will you go as I suggest? Or will you stay?”  
“Can I have some time to think about it?” she asked. Gandalf looked surprised and didn’t speak for a moment.  
“Yes,” he said, “But do not take too long. You must be gone by sunrise.” Morag nodded. She could see Thranduil and Bard staring at her as she left the tent.

She didn’t stop until she was in an empty street. She slumped against a wall. Two weeks, in fifty-plus years, she had never been so much as two days late, never mind two weeks! She slid down the wall until she was sat on the ground. It all began to make sense. Her sickness, food tasting off, her temper shorter than normal.  
“Thranduil, what have you done?” she whispered, her hand clutching her stomach. It was the only possible explanation. She was pregnant, with his child. No, it couldn’t be true, she couldn’t be. She went to rub her neck only for the skin to feel rougher than she remembered. She ran her hand back and forth a few times before realising what it was. Stubble. The rather infamous neck-beard she had grown in her teens was coming back. Her mind flashed to the times she had seen women amongst the Dunedain fall pregnant. Lots of them had ended up growing more hair. She covered her face with her hands. She was pregnant. Her stomach felt like the bottom had dropped out. A sob escaped her without her realising at first, her heart pounding. She was pregnant, with the Elf-King’s child. How could she have been so foolish? She shouldn’t have been so arrogant to think that it couldn’t happen to her. She had been in his bed for over a week, she had lost count of the number of times he had taken her, climaxed inside her, his body taut against hers. Of course she had been foolish…she had been falling for him, had fallen for him and been terrified of it.

A numb feeling began to wash over her as she realised it was no longer just her life she had to think about. She looked down at her stomach. If she was with child, she had another to consider. Should she stay and put both of them in danger from the Orcs? Or should she take Gandalf’s advice (and Thranduil’s offer of a guard) and flee south to her kin, to home? No. She couldn’t stay. If Thranduil found out, he would never let her leave. But that thought didn’t frighten her as much as it once did. She climbed slowly to her feet, resting one hand on her stomach, wondering if this was how her mother had felt when she had discovered her own pregnancy. From what Gandalf had said, her mother had never intended to have a child either. He had once said her mother had been wilder when she was younger. Had the same thing happened? Had her mother reigned in her wild side when she had another life to care for? If her mother could do it, so could she. Even if it meant leaving Thranduil behind forever. No, not forever. One day, she would come back, bring his child to him. Give her child the chance with their father she never had with hers.

She walked through the streets to Bard’s house. Candles had been lit inside and she could hear his children talking. Morag knocked on the door. It opened and Bard practically filled the doorway.  
“Oh,” he said, “Thranduil sent someone looking for you. Your little Hobbit friend came.”  
“Bilbo?” Morag said, “He…he left the mountain.”  
“Aye,” Bard said, “What are you doing here?”  
“I…wait, why did Bilbo leave?”  
“He brought us something to barter with,” Bard said, none of the usual friendliness in his voice, “Ask Gandalf. What do you want?”  
“I came to get my things,” Morag said quietly, “And to say I’m sorry for what I said. I shouldn’t have said that about your wife, it was wrong of me. I’m sorry.” Bard’s face softened a little. He turned away and nodded to Sigrid who put down the bowl she was holding and went to fetch something.  
“You were right about Bain,” Bard said, “I…I should have let him learn years ago. But, thank you.” Sigrid appeared, carrying the pack that Morag had made for the few belongings she still had. Sigrid smiled as she handed it over.  
“I take this to mean you will be leaving?” Bard said as Morag slung it onto her back.  
“Yes,” Morag answered, “I think Gandalf may be right here. If those Orcs are looking for the Line of Durin, then I need to be as far away as possible.” Bard nodded.  
“I didn’t think you to be one to heed people’s advice, especially when you can take care of yourself,” Bard said.  
“I’m not doing this for me,” Morag said, “Do you know where Gan…”  
“He’s still with the Elf-King,” Bard said, “Are you alright?”  
“I’m fine,” Morag said, turning away slightly, “It was nice to meet you, Bard. Goodbye.”  
“And you,” Bard said, offering a small smile.

Morag turned and began to head back to where Thranduil’s tent was. She should tell him. Tell him everything. That at some point in his realm, she fell head over heels for him. That this was why she couldn’t seem to keep her hands off him. That she was carrying his baby in her belly because of that insatiable need to touch him. But if she told him that, the truth, would it break his heart when she had to leave? He had suffered from it many times, losing his beloved because of the marriage his father had arranged, losing his wife. Now she suspected he was losing Legolas too. No, she couldn’t tell him. She didn’t want to cause him anymore pain. He was better off not knowing. He wouldn’t be distracted when the Orcs came then. He could keep a level head and maybe come out the other side of this alive. Alive and well enough for her to come back one day, to start again.

The guards had disappeared from outside the tent when she arrived. No doubt sent to man the walls instead. Morag could hear low voices speaking as she got closer. The flap opened and out stepped Gandalf and Bilbo.  
“Bilbo,” Morag breathed.  
“Morag!” Bilbo cried, hurrying forwards before pausing. He hesitated for a moment before wrapping his arms around her awkwardly. Morag stood still for a moment, surprised by the sudden affection, before relaxing and patting his head.  
“I’ve come to help end this silly quarrel,” Bilbo said, stepping backwards.  
“Yes, Bard said you’d brought us something,” she said, “But what could possibly…” she trailed off as Gandalf withdrew something from up his sleeve and unwrapped the cloth around it.  
“The Arkenstone,” he said, “The one thing Thorin prizes above all else.”  
“You have a plan then,” Morag said, unable to tear her eyes from it. Gandalf nodded.  
“Indeed, we do,” he said, “I trust this means you are taking my advice.”  
“I’ll be gone before first light,” Morag said, “I…I just came to say my goodbyes.”  
“Take some rest,” Gandalf said, “The Elves who will be escorting you will not be ready for some time.”  
“I should find somewhere to…” Morag started.  
“ _Gi nathlon hi_. (You are welcome here),” Thranduil spoke suddenly from behind the wizard, “If you have come to say goodbye, I would not want you to rush it.” Morag was finally able to pull her gaze from the jewel in Gandalf’s hand. She felt her heart quiver as Thranduil stepped into view.  
“We shall leave you to your farewells,” Gandalf said, “Come along Bilbo.”  
“Goodbye Morag,” Bilbo said, “If you’re ever up near the Shire, you’re welcome for tea.”  
“I may take you up on that,” Morag said, watching him trot off after Gandalf. She turned back to Thranduil.  
“ _Tolo ar nin_ (Come with me),” he said, holding the flap of the tent open. She followed him inside. She felt no fear about being alone with him. Not when she knew she would be leaving in the morning. She dropped her pack by the entrance as he poured some wine into a glass and handing it to her.  
“I was surprised not to see the Master here,” she said, wondering where the fat sod had gotten to.  
“It appears he has found something more interesting,” Thranduil said, “And shiny.”  
“You’ve got spies watching him!” Morag said. Thranduil smiled and sipped his wine. He put the glass down and shed his large outer robe and crown, dropping them on a table before seating himself in a chair. Now he didn’t have the robe on, he didn’t seem to fill it as much. Perhaps because without it, he wasn’t King of the Woodland Realm, he was just Thranduil. Morag lingered near the edge of the tent, despite Thranduil’s laid back mood.  
“ _Av-‘osto_ (Don’t be afraid),” he said gently, “Come here. This may well be the last time I ever see you. And I would look on your face one last time.” Morag took a sip of the wine and moved closer.  
“So, you are following Gandalf’s advice?” Thranduil questioned her. She nodded.  
“I figured if the Orcs realise I’m not here, they might spare a few lives to come after me,” she said as she got closer to the chair.  
“Possibly,” Thranduil said, “I must admit I am torn.”  
“Hmm?”  
“I understand you are formidable in battle, and would very much like to see it for myself,” he said, “But at the same time, I wish for you to be far away. To be somewhere safe.” He had the same look on his face as he had the night he had come after her on the lakeside.  
“If I hadn’t have left with the Dwarves,” Morag said, “If I had stayed in Mirkwood, with you, what would have happened?”  
“The Dwarves would still have woken the dragon,” Thranduil said, “Lives still would have been lost, though I think you saved a few by being there. As for you…” He reached forward, taking her wine from her before pulling her to him, onto his lap. His hand stroked through her curls for a moment before his head came down and his lips met hers in a searing kiss.  
“As for you, I would have tied you to my bed every morning so you were there to greet me on my return,” he said, his voice a hoarse whisper. Morag couldn’t do much more except whimper in response. Her mind was racing trying to comprehend what was happening. The old instincts to pull away and run were being squashed down by something new. A desire to be held by him, to enjoy him while she could.

He was moving her so she was closer to him, straddling his lap as he dove in for another kiss, his lips caressing hers, his hands in her hair, pulling her closer. It was her last night here. The damage was already done, so why not? Morag gripped his clothes, pressing herself against him as she nipped at his bottom lip. He hissed slightly in pain, pulling back for a moment. His hands left her hair, trailing down her neck to her shoulders, to push off her coat. He leaned forward and began to kiss along her neck. Morag leaned her head back, running her hands over his shoulders as she felt his tongue swipe against her skin.  
“Morag,” he whispered against the dampened skin. He pulled her back upright and gave her another deep kiss, his tongue following the seam of her lips until she opened up to him. He groaned, hands suddenly on her hips, pulling them into his. Morag sighed against his mouth, feeling him, every inch powerful and hard beneath her. But something was different from all the other times they had been together. It was in the way his arm wrapped around her waist, the way his kisses felt like worship, the way his hand stroked her hair. This wasn’t ‘waging war’ like they had back in Mirkwood. Thranduil pulled back slightly, resting his forehead against hers.  
“Morag,” he panted slightly, his blue eyes searching her grey ones, “ _Gi melin_.”  
“What did you say?” Morag asked, certain she had misheard.  
“ _Gi melin_ (I love you),” Thranduil repeated.  
“You don’t mean that,” she said, “You can’t.”  
“I do,” Thranduil said, one hand cupping her cheek, “ _Gi melin_ , Morag.” He kissed her again as Morag felt her heart might just burst.

A surge of warmth shot through her entire being, ending in the muscle that was furiously beating in her chest. She wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him back. He kept whispering those two Elvish words over and over between kisses as he stood up from the chair, her legs wrapping around his waist.   
“Gi melin,” he whispered as he knelt down upon the bed behind the screen, the bed she had slept in beside the lake. He peppered her face and neck with kisses as he removed her boots.  
“Stay with me tonight,” he said softly, his face buried in her shoulder. Morag laughed a little.  
“You already took off my coat and boots, I gathered I was staying,” she said.  
“I thought it only polite to ask,” Thranduil replied, his eyes sparkling with some hidden laughter.  
“Well, it is my last night,” Morag said softly, her hands smoothing back his platinum hair. She made sure to tease the tips of his pointed ears as she went. He moaned and closed his eyes.  
“ _Gi melin_ ,” he muttered again before leaning down and attacking the laces of her shirt, pulling them loose enough that he could pull the shirt to one side, exposing the side of one breast. He kissed the skin he was exposing as his hands began to gather the bottom of shirt up. He pushed it up, over her head before discarding it on the floor. He leant over her body, his weight resting on his forearms, hands in her hair.

He kissed her again, and again and again, like he couldn’t get enough of her. Morag’s hands slipped to his chest, undoing the fastenings of his own shirt. When she had it open, she traced one hand down his chest, feeling the muscles tense and release as she went. Thranduil pulled back and turned her over onto her front. He immediately began to kiss along her scars, making her back arch as his soft lips teased her mutilated flesh. Her soft bottom pressed against his groin, making him groan. One of his hands moved to the laces on her pants, quickly undoing and loosening them. He pressed himself against her for a moment before nipping at her shoulder and moving away. His hands ran down her back before pulling her pants down her legs, her hips rising slightly to help him. She could his breathing quicken as he revealed the last of her body, followed shortly by the sound of her pants hitting the floor. She could hear the rustle of fabric as he undressed, her skin tingling at the thought, but she didn’t turn over, not until she felt his hands on her waist again. She got a quick look at his powerful body before he crawled over her and began to kiss her neck, their hands wound in each other’s hair.

His weight pressed against her didn’t feel suffocating; it felt wonderful, warm, sweet and had her opening her legs to wrap them around his waist. Her entire body was beginning to ache for him, but she knew it would just make the act all the sweeter.  
“ _Gi melin_ ,” he whispered again. Morag wanted to return the sentiment, tell him that he meant more to her than he realised but couldn’t find the words, especially when he began to move backwards down her body, trailing his lips as he went. She almost leapt off the bed in surprise when she felt his fingers separate her lower lips and his mouth descend on her, his tongue pressing its way inside her. Her heart pounded more, her breathing grew shallow.  
“Fuck,” she panted, “Thranduil.” He added a finger to his ministrations, making her cry out again as he continued to lap at her. Her heels dug into the bed as she resisted the urge to grind against him, to press her sex into his face. He pressed fervent kisses to her clit as his finger bent inside her. She called out his name again and she was sure she could feel him smile. She ran her hand over his head, and his silky hair. He lifted his face from her, licking his lips as he took in her panting and flushed form.  
“Morag,” he growled, quickly crawling up her body, gathering her up in his arms, “Mine.” He pressed against her, the tip of his shaft just pressing against her waiting, wanting heat. He gave her another possessive kiss, one hand trailing down her side, her skin now feeling like it was on fire. His hand gripped her bottom as he drove into her. Morag didn’t make a sound, it felt like the air had been knocked out of her lungs. She felt so full, she wasn’t sure there was room for air in the first place. Thranduil made a low groaning sound. She could feel his thigh muscles tensing and holding against her. He was fighting for control, and losing badly.   
“Mine,” he growled against her lips, “My Morag.”

He laid her down so she was resting on the bed comfortably; himself suitably nestled between her legs which were wound around him. He began to pull back, making her back arch before thrusting back in. He let out a long groan.  
“So hot,” he muttered, “Wet.” He grunted and began to pull out again. Morag whimpered and pulled him in for another kiss.  
“Mine,” she whispered between them, “My Thranduil…my King.” Thranduil surged forward on the final word, his eyes flying open. His gaze locked on hers as he continued his rhythm.  
“Say it again,” he commanded.  
“My King,” Morag breathed before fighting for breath. She could feel him swell inside her when she said it.  
“My King,” she repeated, his pace increasing. Everything felt so good. Her skin, his skin, his thrusts, her breasts pressing against his chest, his hair, his hands on her.  
“Mine,” Thranduil growled over and over, “Mine.” He was soon pounding into her, as if he were determined to claim her body in the most primal of ways.  
“Morag,” he groaned, feeling her clench as she neared the precipice. He began to slow.  
“No!” she protested, the feeling of ecstasy beginning to fade.  
“Morag,” his voice was more gentle, “You are shaking.” Morag blinked at him for a moment as he came almost to a stop. Morag moved her hand from where she held his shoulder in a death grip. Her hand was indeed shaking. Thranduil took it in his and brought it to his lips, pressing a warm kiss to her knuckles.  
“Every part of you is shaking,” he said gently, “If you want me to stop…”  
“Don’t!” Morag said quickly, “Don’t stop. I just need you.” Thranduil nodded.  
“ _Gi melin_ , Morag,” he said softly before kissing her. He didn’t end the kiss until he resumed his previous speed of thrusts. One arm was underneath her shoulders, the other around her waist, holding her against him, his eyes fixed on hers. Morag could feel herself drawing near the heights of ecstasy once more. Her hands wove into his hair, holding him in place until she felt the waves of release flood through her body, Thranduil close behind her.

He pulled her in for long, deep kisses as the shaking in her limbs became more apparent, his arms wrapping more tightly around her.  
“I have missed you, my dear,” he whispered against her forehead as he kissed along her brow. Morag couldn’t answer him, only pull herself closer to him, trying to imprint the feel of his skin on hers, to lock him away in her memory for all time.  
“You must rise early if you are to be gone by first light,” Thranduil said softly, pulling back enough to see her face, “Sleep well, my love. _Ollo vae_ (sweet dreams).” He bent down and kissed her forehead again. Morag could already feel the warm embrace of sleep beginning to close around her as Thranduil pulled out of her body. She half-expected him to get up and leave her, but he didn’t. He settled himself immediately behind her on the bed, holding her against him. Her eyes began to droop from the warmth of his body.  
“ _Ollo vae_ ,” he whispered in her ear, “ _Gi melin_.” A kiss to her temple the last thing she felt before falling asleep.

 


	23. The Defiler

Thranduil didn’t want to open his eyes. If he did, it would be morning and she would be leaving. He heard Morag sigh softly in her sleep and lean back into him, her back resting against his chest. Thranduil felt her warmth press into him, it felt relaxing to have her so close. He gently opened his eyes. She was still fast off, her long black curls shielding her face from view. He propped himself up on his elbow to look down at her. Far away in the distance, he could hear a thrush singing somewhere to the north. A quick glance at the opening to the rear of the tent showed the sky outside was lightening. Dawn was approaching. They would both need to rise soon. He turned his attention back to Morag. She looked so peaceful when she was asleep, never making a sound louder than a sigh. Something she had never achieved sleeping on her own in the time he had known her. When she had been in his dungeons, the guards had reported her tossing and turning in the night, often grunting or whining in her sleep, plagued by some unknown fear in her dreams. He had seen her in the nights by the lake, her sleep had been disturbed, fractured. But when he was with her, all was calm and she slept well. It was where she was meant to be, in his arms. He placed one hand on her shoulder. She didn’t even stir, not when he brushed it down her arm and onto her side. He smiled, feeling her soft warm skin beneath his fingers. Her skin might be soft but he knew that all he need do is press on it the slightest bit and he would feel strong muscles beneath it.

He allowed his hand to slip over her stomach, his breath catching in his throat as he felt the fëa of his child burning inside her. He allowed himself to smile broadly. Such a strong spirit already. If this child was anything like Morag, it would be keeping everyone on their toes. He had known for a long time about the child, from the moment it had been conceived. The night she had shared her scars with him. Such openness between them, all the walls brought down, he had found himself falling for her, for her honesty, her passion and her determination. And as they had lain in the afterglow, after he had found himself asking, begging her to stay, he had felt his fëa, his spirit, join with hers and form a new life. He had felt the same rush of joy he had felt when Legolas had been conceived which had slowly been replaced by fear. If he had told Morag straight away, she would have bolted, run away, never to return. He knew he had to be patient, wait for her to discover for herself and come to him. He suspected that she now knew. Her sudden compliance with Gandalf’s advice was evidence of that. She knew it wasn’t just her life she was responsible for now. But she hadn’t said anything to him yet and he wasn’t going to force it from her. He had a thin line to tread, and he had to step carefully.

His hand lingered over the spot where the child was growing as he bent down to press a kiss to Morag’s temple.  
“Time to rise,” he whispered softly in her ear. She moaned and buried her face in the pillow, reaching behind to pull on his arm.  
“No,” she mumbled stubbornly.  
“Yes, I am afraid it is,” Thranduil said, kissing her neck. Morag moaned again, arching her back and pressing her backside into him. He chuckled slightly.  
“Not going to work, I fear,” he said.  
“Please,” she whispered.  
“No,” Thranduil said firmly, “You need your strength for your journey south. And I need my wits about me to deal with your father.” Morag groaned and her body slumped heavily into the bed and moved away from him. He hated to deny her (and himself) but knew that if he took her again, they would never make it out of the bed. He climbed out from underneath the covers, retrieving his black shirt and pants from where he had discarded them that night. Morag remained partially buried beneath the warm blankets. Thranduil dressed, pulling on his red robe rather than his larger silver one. He heard shuffling footsteps outside.  
“Galion, you may enter,” he said. The elf entered. Much like Feren, the head of his personal guard, Galion had been serving Thranduil for longer than the Elf-King cared to remember. Certainly all of this age, and a substantial amount of the previous one too.   
“My lord, are you and…Morag ready for breakfast?” Galion asked, hesitating over Morag’s name. He was unused to addressing someone without a proper title.  
“Yes, Morag will be rising shortly,” Thranduil said, retrieving his crown from where he had left it, “Will we not, Morag?” A low grunt came from the bed and a few mumbled curse words. Evidently, Morag was not a morning person. Galion smiled briefly before bowing his head and leaving.

Within a few moments, Morag had appeared, now dressed, though she still looked half-asleep. She was running one hand through hers curls, pushing them back off her face as she yawned.  
“Good morning,” Thranduil said as she stepped close to him.  
“Morning,” she said, her voice hoarse. He saw her rise up on her toes and bent a little to meet her halfway for a soft kiss.  
“ _Gi melin_ ,” he whispered as she parted from him. The sound of someone clearing their throat had Morag pulling back quickly. She turned, pressing her flushing face into his arm as Galion stepped up to the table, a few plates on one arm, laden with food for breakfast and a pitcher of water in the opposite hand. He set the pitcher and plates down before bowing his head once more and excusing himself.  
“There is no need to be shy in front of Galion,” Thranduil said as he nudged Morag towards a table, “He has been privy to many moments in my life.”  
“Such as?” Morag asked, apparently awakening at the notion of gossip. She seated herself in a chair at the table and looked at him expectantly as she poured herself some water.  
“He may have found my first love sneaking out of my chambers once,” Thranduil said as casually as he could.  
“Oh, my!” Morag said, grinning as she examined what looked to be a jar of honey, “That is quite a moment to be privy to…next you’ll be telling me he once saw the Queen naked.” She took a sip of her drink.  
“He did, once,” he admitted, causing Morag to spit out her drink and start coughing. Thranduil barely managed to suppress the grin and laughter he felt creeping up. Thankfully, Morag was too busy sniggering with her head on the table to see.  
“Poor bugger,” she laughed when she resurfaced, “If he saw me naked, it would probably scar him for life!”  
“Morag,” Thranduil chided, “You are more than pleasing to the eye, especially mine.” Morag smiled softly at his compliment and turned back to breakfast. She had put the jar of honey back and had settled on some fruit instead. Thranduil watched as she ate.  
“Stomach still unsettled?” he asked as she ate slowly, seemingly washing down each bite with some water.  
“A little,” she admitted. She seemed to hesitate for a moment. Thranduil found himself bracing for her to announce her pregnancy, but she didn’t. Instead she turned back to her breakfast.

He watched as she ate, she seemed anxious. It was little things she did. Avoiding prolonged eye contact with him, looking at him when she didn’t think he saw, looking around at her surroundings. She was on edge, most likely nervous about her journey or impending motherhood. Perhaps she was trying to summon the courage to talk to him, or was afraid of what his reaction might be. He wanted to reassure her, to offer her some words of comfort, but how?

Aside from a little light-natured conversation, the rest of their meal was passed in silence until Galion came to inform him that Elros and Calad, the two guards he had selected to go with her, were ready and waiting by the main gate. The sun was just creeping over the hills to the east as they walked towards the gate, Thranduil’s hand on her back. The rest of Dale seemed to be just starting to stir, only a handful of Elves, Gandalf and Bard were nearby, the last two engrossed in conversation. Elros and Calad bowed their heads as Thranduil approached with Morag.  
“You have your orders?” he asked.  
“Yes, my lord,” Elros said, “We are to take Morag to Rohan and her kin, by the safest road possible.” Thranduil nodded and the two guards began to gather the packs which held their supplies. He turned to Morag.  
“Stay safe,” he said softly, his hand cupping her cheek, “And if you should ever find yourself in these lands again, you will always be welcome in my realm.” Morag looked up at him for a moment, her lips parted as if she were about to speak. Thranduil held his breath. Morag sighed, looked down and stepped forward, her arms encircling his waist. Thranduil enclosed her in his own, feeling her warmth, possibly for the last time.  
“I will miss you, more than you could ever know,” he whispered so only she could hear, “You hold a special place in my heart that I fear will never be filled once you leave. _Gi melin_ , Morag.” He heard her sniff but knew that this was all he could do. Tell her that there would always be a place for her with him, let her know that he truly loved her and hope that she would find a way to return to him, complete him again someday. Thranduil placed a kiss on top of her head before letting her go. That was when Gandalf and Bard turned around and Thranduil stepped back to allow them their farewells.  
“I must say, Morag, you surprised me when you agreed to this,” Gandalf said, “I always thought you didn’t trust me.”  
“I don’t,” Morag said, “But your advice seemed sound on this occasion.” She turned dismissively from him to Bard.  
“I’m sorry about what I said yesterday,” she said. Bard waved a hand.  
“Forgiven,” he said simply, “I’m sorry that it ruined the last day I had with you.” He stepped forward and embraced her. Morag laughed a little and returned the gesture. Thranduil watched them closely. He had noticed the lakeman getting closer to her.  
“I think we’re making the great Elf-King jealous,” Bard said smiling.  
“Oh, just ignore him,” Morag said before stepping back, “Try to play nicely with Thorin today.” Bard laughed, reaching into his pocket and pulling out the Arkenstone.  
“Only if he plays nicely with us,” he said, casually tossing the stone in the air and catching it.  
“Bard, that’s a priceless heirloom of Durin’s Folk, not a potato,” she said, “Be careful with it.” Bard held his hands up in mock surrender and put the stone back in his pocket.  
“Yes, mother,” he said, “Goodbye, Morag.”  
“Goodbye Bard,” she replied, patting his arm before moving over to Elros and Calad. She glanced back over her shoulder at Thranduil one last time before heading out of the gate…and out of his life.

*

If Morag had paid attention to the two Elves in front of her, she probably could have followed their conversation. But she was too distracted as they began to head southwards, back towards Lake Esgaroth. She played Thranduil’s words to her over and over in her head.

_If you should ever find yourself in these lands again, you will always be welcome in my realm._

Her heart swelled at the thought. He wanted her with him. He wanted her to be with him, even without her telling him about the child. Her hand drifted down to her stomach.  
“Do you not agree, Morag?” Elros’ voice drew her from her thoughts.  
“Excuse me?” she said, dropping her hand quickly. If these two figured out she was pregnant, they’d probably haul her back to Mirkwood faster than she could blink.  
“Our King, he has grown…less ill-tempered in the past few weeks,” Elros said, “What do you think?”  
“I suppose,” she answered. Elros nudged Calad with his elbow and grinned. Calad called Elros a few choice names.

They were long since out of sight of Dale, moving much faster than the caravan of refugees had. In fact they should be back at the lake by nightfall. As Morag took in their surroundings, it looked familiar from the journey a few days before, but something was off. She just couldn’t figure it out. It was only as they were coming around a massive stone ridge that Morag placed her finger on what was wrong. There was no noise. No birds, no insects, nothing, only the sound of the wind in the long yellowing grass on the aide of the road opposite the tall ridge.  
“Do you hear that?” she asked the Elves. Elros and Calad stopped, turning to look at her.  
“Hear what?” Calad asked.  
“Exactly,” she said, “Why are there no animals? This place was crawling with life when we first came through.” She watched as the two Elves tilted their heads.  
“I think I hear something,” said Calad, turning to face the ridge, “It sounds like…” He grunted and fell backwards, a black-shafted arrow in his chest. Morag looked up to see a massive Orc drop down over the ridge. Elros drew his sword only to be pulled off his feet with a yell. Morag reached for her sword, spinning to fend off his attacker, only to find a snarling warg with Elros’ leg in it’s jaws. It must have been hiding in the long grass. A hand closed around Morag’s neck, completely encircling it and yanking her backwards, her sword falling to the ground in surprise. She took in the pale, twisted face and the missing lower arm. She knew who this was by reputation alone. Azog, the Defiler.


	24. The Battle Of The Five Armies

_Breathe._

_In._

_Out._

_Keep breathing._

Morag stumbled as the Orcs dragged her along by her arms. Her sword was gone along with anything else she could use as a weapon, her coat lay abandoned on the road and her two guards were incapacitated. Calad hadn’t been killed by the arrow. He still had the arrowhead embedded between two ribs, the shaft had been broken off but he was in a bad way. Elros’ leg had almost been torn to shreds by the Warg. He was drifting in and out of consciousness, dragged along by his collar. Azog was leading them through a tunnel in the mountain, the Orcs talking in Black Speech. Morag didn’t understand what they were saying, so she just concentrated on her breathing, trying to remain as calm as she could. There was light ahead, daylight. One of the Orcs holding her gave the rope binding her arms a sharp tug, throwing her off balance. She fell to the ground. She lost track of her breathing. Was it supposed to be in or out? Wait, why was she not breathing? Breathe, Morag, breathe! She inhaled sharply as she was hauled to her feet again. In the dim light, she could see Azog was watching her over his shoulder. He had something planned, she knew it, but there was nothing she could do. No weapons, no help, nothing. She shivered, it was so cold without her coat. She could see the light reflecting off ice in the tunnel walls. The light grew closer, she could hear voices and they weren’t Orc.

Finally they reached the end of the tunnel and she was pulled out into the cold light of day. She looked around. They were in the ruins of an old watchtower. Ravenhill. She let out a slow, shuddering breath which misted in the air. They were surrounded by ice as winter fast approached. In the height of summer, a rich stream would run past the watchtower but now it was completely frozen over. Azog barked an order, pointing at the tower. The Orcs hurried forward, dragging their prisoners with them. Morag could see a standard of some kind had been raised on top of the tower and what looked like a catapult, a few Orcs milling around. How long had Azog been planning this? How had he gotten the Orcs so organised and well-armed? Gandalf had been right, there was something much worse working in the shadows. She heard a faint cry of pain where an Orc banged Elros’ injured leg on the stairs they were marching up. Up, up, up they went, right to the top, where a dozen more Orcs waited. She, Elros and Calad were taken to the edge of the tower. Morag was forced onto her knees, the rope around her wrists cut. Calad was dropped next to her, though only his captors hand was keeping him upright. Elros was unceremoniously dropped to the floor.

Morag looked out at the land before them. She could see Thranduil’s army, their armour glinting in the sunlight, the small huddle of brown and green, that was the people of Laketown. She could see something else, on the eastern side of the small valley. Another army. For a moment, she thought it was Orcs, but then she heard a loud, brash voice yell, “sodding off!” and it’s echo bouncing off the mountain. She might be able to hear them, but Morag knew she could shout herself hoarse before they heard her. She scanned the crowd and saw the head of platinum hair she was looking for. Thranduil. It didn’t feel like mere hours since she had seen him, it felt like days. She found herself wishing she had ignored Gandalf and was down there with them. The sounds of Thranduil and the new comers voices echoed around her, but she caught one name ‘Dain’. It must be Dain Ironfoot, Thorin’s cousin. She wanted to scream, shout out to them that their real enemy wasn’t each other; that an army was lurking nearby.

Out the corner of her eye, Morag saw an Orc grab Calad by the throat and lift him up a bit. A glance to the other side saw another doing the same to Elros. Azog spoke one word. A flash of light came from the Orcs blades before they sliced open the throats of the two Elves. Morag winced and closed her eyes, but she didn’t cry out. Azog may not have seen her face, but if she let him hear how frightened she was, he would only be encouraged. She couldn’t hear anything but a faint gurgling sound from Calad. Elros had mercifully lost consciousness before the blade had touched him. When she heard Calad hit the floor, she opened her eyes and looked down. A thick red puddle was sneaking around her and dripping over the edge of the tower.  _Breathe. In. Out. Breathe._ The Elves bodies were dragged away from the edge. Morag felt her chest shake as she fought tears. She couldn’t let them see, couldn’t let them win. A horn blasted from behind her, loud enough to reach the people down on the valley floor. She saw the ripple of movement through the crowd. A slow creaking sound, a clang and Morag watched, horrified, as she saw Elros and Calad’s bodies were propelled through the air towards the army. The soldiers moved at the last moment. There was a brief pause before she saw one of the soldiers go running towards Thranduil.

A hand closed around her throat and pulled her up.  It was Azog. He pushed her forward sharply as she saw Thranduil turn to look towards the tower just in time for her feet to go over the edge, leaving her dangling over the sheer face of the tower with just Azog’s grip keeping her up. A deep rumbling noise reverberated through the valley. Looking south, Morag saw Azog’s army marching towards the mountain and the mass of people before it. She heard Azog chuckle as Dain’s army charged towards the Orcs, roaring and shouting.

This was his plan, to end the line of Durin. He was going to draw Thorin and the others out using Dain as bait, knowing they would rush out to save their kin. She looked down; sharp, jagged rocks lay at the base. That was how he was going to end her. She thought heard her name resound off the valley walls, despite the rabble. She looked into the valley. Just beyond the swirling chaos of the now-raging battle, she saw Thranduil, sat on his elk, looking towards her. She felt a pain in her heart, as if it were breaking. Her mind swam. If this was her last day, she would never experience so many things. She would never see the child in her womb come into this world, she wouldn’t see the bump grow larger and larger, she wouldn’t see Thranduil’s face as he held their child for the first time, hear them laugh, hear them cry. She wouldn’t feel Thranduil’s embrace again, his kiss, hear his voice. She looked down again. This was it. She felt Azog’s arm raise, as if she weren’t high enough over the ground already. He laughed, a deep, booming cackle and she closed her eyes for a moment. This was it. She felt his fingers slacken and she fell.

*

Balin shuddered as he heard the faint, sharp scream, watching as Morag fell from Azog’s hand and disappeared behind one of the rocky outcrops that surrounded Ravenhill. Balin knew that ravine, it was deep and littered with sharp rocks. There was no way she could survive that fall. The poor girl was dead. He gasped as turned away.  
“Morag…” he could hear Bofur’s voice shaking as he spoke. Ori was sniffling but otherwise an odd hush had fallen over them.  
“What have I done?” Thorin’s voice broke the silence. Balin turned to look at his king. Thorin was staring towards Ravenhill, with a look on his face that Balin had only seen once before. It was the same look Thorin had worn the night they had first met Morag, the night Thorin had learnt of her  mother’s death. He looked heartbroken.  
“What have I done?” he said again, his hands shaking.  
“I…I don’t understand, why did the Defiler have Morag?” Fili said, “Why would he do that?”  
“What have I done?” Thorin’s hands were on his head, his voice cracking as he stumbled away from the edge of the barricade and down the stairs, letting out pain-filled cries.  
“Morag wasn’t just a guide,” Balin said as Thorin howled, “She was your cousin, Thorin’s daughter. Gandalf had gone to look for her mother, but…she had passed.”  
“Isrid,” said Dwalin, “That Ranger woman!” Balin nodded.  
“It’s true,” Nori said, “I read her contract…Thorin acknowledged her.”  
“Why?” Kili ground out, turning around so quickly that Dori had to pull Ori out of the way before he got knocked off the palisade.  
“Why?” Kili repeated, “Why did he treat her like that? You always told us to respect our women, because they are rare! So why would Thorin treat something as precious as a daughter like she was muck on his boot?!” His face was flushing red as his fists clenched. Fili rushed forward, grabbing his brother’s shoulders.  
“Kili, calm down!” he urged.  
“No!” Kili shouted, “She’s dead! She’s dead because we all pushed her away! We could have saved her! She should have been here! With us!”  
“We all played a part,” Dwalin said, “Thorin’s heart must have broken when he learnt of Isrid’s death.”  
“That doesn’t excuse what he did!” Kili shouted, fighting against his brother’s grip, “He let us treat her like an animal! She’s his daughter!  We should have been treating her like a princess.” He pushed Fili away and stormed after Thorin, Fili close behind him.

They found Thorin hiding in one of the small corridors. He was crouched on the ground, his head in his hands. Kili’s rage had not subsided.  
“How could you do that?” he growled, “How could you treat her like that? When all she did was try to help? How could you let us treat her that way?”  
“I’m sorry,” Thorin whispered, “I shouldn’t…I was wrong.”  
“Uncle?” Fili said softly, sitting next to Thorin.  
“I was so in love with her mother, I should have gone back sooner,” Thorin said, “I…I have made a mess of everything. I convinced myself that she would wait, wait until I had reclaimed Erebor.”  
“Tell us about Isrid,” Fili said, giving Kili a look telling him to remain quiet.  
“Isrid,” Thorin smiled as he said the name, “She…she was unbelievable. Morag is…was just like her. Wild, determined, passionate, ready to see the world in all it’s glory. I should have gone back sooner, looked for her. I should have found her.”  
“When did she die?” Fili asked.  
“Eight years ago,” Thorin said, “An Orc raid that killed their chieftain too. At least that’s what Gandalf told me. Morag looked just like her, it hurt to look at her and see my eyes in Isrid’s face. I should have been there. Morag should not have grown up without her father.” He rubbed his face with his hand.  
“We can’t go back and change the past,” Fili said, “But Uncle, we can join Dain, fight back against the Orcs. We can kill the Defiler once and for all.”  
“Not for all,” Kili said, “For Morag. She didn’t deserve this.” Thorin looked at his nephews and smiled, genuinely for the first time in a long while.  
“For Morag,” he said, standing and dusting off his coat. As Kili stepped to one side, his gaze fell on the rest of his Company, stood, watching and waiting. Thorin hesitated. They must all hate him now.  
“I know I have no right to ask anymore of you,” he said, “Especially after all I’ve done, but will you follow me? One last time?” Some of the Company looked at each other before Dwalin stepped forward.  
“For Morag.”

*

Morag took a few deep breaths, still unsure of how she had managed it but she was alive. An old platform for archers had still been intact, with a rope attached to it. She had managed to grab the rope and stop her fall. Her hand had rope burns, her shoulder hurt from where it had been pulled sharply and one of her sides was going to be badly bruised from where she had slammed into the side of the tower. But she was alive, hidden from the battle by a rocky outcrop and from Azog by a thin mist. Everyone probably thought she was dead. She started to pull herself up the rope, for the first time ever, thankful for having a Dwarf for a father. She had inherited his upper body strength and, with some discomfort from her injured arm, was able to pull herself up onto the archery platform. It felt good to have the solid wood underneath her as she crawled to the window. She was alive. She dropped to the floor once inside and let out an uneasy laugh. She really was alive. She heard the horn on top of the tower blow again. Azog. Relief gave way to anger. He had slaughtered the two Elves with her just for a little show, he had dropped her off the tower, knowing that everyone could see. The Defiler. She wasn’t going to let him get away with this. She was going to destroy him. He could break her body, shatter her soul, but she was going to end him before he even laid a finger on one of Durin’s folk.

But first she needed weapons. She crept along the corridor she was in, sticking to the shadows, ears listening for any sign of the Orcs. She heard some chattering in Black Speech and pressed herself against the wall, her shoulder aching at the cold stone on her back. She listened closely, relying on her tracking skills. A pair of Orcs, but they were separating. One was going upstairs and the other was coming towards her. She reached around and found a rock near her feet. She picked it up and took a deep breath. The Orc passed her, not seeing her crouched in the shadows. Morag moved as silently as she could behind it, raising the rock above her head before slamming it down over the Orc’s cranium. The Orc let out a small screech before Morag was able to land a second blow. It twitched a little before lying still. She began pulling off bits of the Orc’s armour and weaponry, looking for anything she could use to arm herself. She tied on the wrist guards the Orc had but the rest of the armour was too big and bulky for her so she took the Orc’s sword and shield instead.

Now she was armed, she needed to find her way through the labyrinth that was Ravenhill. Corridors twisted and turned and crossed each other, and if she wasn’t careful, she could get lost. She needed to find the stairs. She could hear the battle raging outside and her mind drifted to Thranduil. She hoped he was alright. He had watched her seemingly plummet to her death. She wished she had a way to let him know that she was alive, that she would see him again. Her hand travelled to her stomach.  
“It’ll be alright,” she whispered, “We’ll find him, when all this is over, we’ll find him.” She felt her eyes sting with tears and realised that the thought of going back to Thranduil, of being with him, made her happy.  
“It’ll be alright,” she whispered and she headed off down the corridor the Orc had come down.

She must have made a wrong turn somewhere and she ended up on the other side of the tower with no sign of the stairs. She could hear shouting and yelling coming from outside. But it wasn’t Orc voices she heard. Hurrying footsteps came down the next corridor. She tightened her grip on the sword, ready to face whoever appeared, her heart starting to pound. She took up a fighting stance, ready for them. Two shadows appeared and rounded the corner.  
“Morag…” She almost dropped her shield. It was Fili and Kili. They looked amazed to see her. She lowered her shield and sword.  
“You’re alive,” Kili breathed, “You’re alive!” The two Dwarf brothers rushed forward, pulling her onto her knees and down to their height, both of them with huge grins on their faces. Hands touched her head, shoulders and arms as if reassuring themselves that she was real. There was a moment where the two brothers just stared at her, huge grins on their faces. They looked so happy to see her. She felt confused. Why, after all this time, after all the things they had said, the names they had called her, did they seem so relieved to see her? Fili reached out and put one of his hands around the back of her head, pulling her in close. He gently nudged his forehead against hers and Morag felt her heart seize for a moment. She had seen this gesture amongst the Dwarves. Between brothers, or between Thorin and his nephews, a gesture of love and kinship.  
“It’s good to see you alive, cousin,” Fili said. Morag blanched at the last word.  
“Balin told us, told everyone,” Kili said as Fili pulled away, “We’re sorry for what we did. If we had known…” He didn’t finish his sentence, he just pulled her forward and touched his forehead with hers.  
“Where is Thorin?” she asked, her voice shaking.  
“He’s gone to find Azog,” Fili said, “After we saw you fall, he was grief-stricken. He looked like his heart was breaking. We were coming to avenge you.”  
“Azog’s got a dozen other Orcs up there with him,” Morag said, “He won’t be able to fight them all. Come on, show me how you got here.” She stood up and looked down at the pair, her cousins. It almost, almost, felt like she belonged, like it did when she fought alongside her mother’s kin.

*

Thorin resisted the urge to rush forward and slice Azog to pieces. The Defiler had killed his grandfather, driven his father into madness and thrown his daughter to her death. And that was just his own family. Azog had killed hundreds, if not thousands, of other Dwarves. Fathers, sons, brothers, there were families where all the men did not return home, in some cases, entire families were wiped out by this one Orc. Thorin closed his eyes for a moment.

_Isrid, I’m sorry, I should have done better for you, for us, for Morag._

When he opened his eyes, he pulled his sword free from its sheath. It wasn’t Orcrist, but it would do. He stepped forward. The first Orc turned just in time to see the flash of Thorin’s blade as it sliced through its neck. It let out a small screech. Other Orcs turned, saw Thorin and charged towards him. Thorin dealt them all deadly blows, slicing open guts and throats, severing heads and limbs. His eyes fixed on Azog. Soon, it was just the two of them, Thorin panting and sweating, Azog staring at him.  
“You…and me,” Thorin said, “You’ve killed your last.” Azog chuckled, raising his severed arm, now with a jagged blade. Thorin charged forward and Azog brought his arm down. Thorin blocked the blow but was sent crashing down onto the floor by it. Azog began to stab at Thorin who had to roll sharply to avoid the blade. He managed to scramble backwards and get to his feet just as Azog charged at him. The pair of them swirled around each other, jabbing and blocking. Thorin was starting to get a little dizzy but he wasn’t going to stop. Not until Azog had paid for what he’d done. Suddenly Azog stopped moving and the world seemed to spin for a moment. Thorin felt disorientated, almost like he was drunk. Then he felt it. A blunt force on his side, sending him crashing into a wall, banging his head. He fell to the floor, hearing Azog laugh madly, his vision blurring slightly.

“Thorin!” he heard a voice shout. He looked up. He must be hallucinating. It couldn’t be. Morag racing up the stairs, sword and shield in hand. Fili and Kili closed behind her.  
“Thorin!” Morag shouted again before racing past him, her eyes fixed on Azog, “Fili, I need a boost!” Fili overtook her, dropping to his knees a few feet from Azog. Thorin watched as Morag stepped up onto Fili’s shoulders as Fili stood quickly, throwing her high into the air. Following her, he saw her land a blow to Azog’s skull with her shield.  
“She’s real, Uncle,” he heard Fili shout over his shoulder as Morag rolled carefully along the floor, ending up on her knees and ready to go again, “She’s alive.” Azog tried to deliver a blow to Morag who raised her shield and stopped it, pushing the Orc back. An arrow from Kili whizzed through the air, striking Azog in the shoulder, making him roar. Kili dropped his bow and rushed forward, swinging his shield from his back to his front. Thorin climbed to his feet as his nephews stood by Morag’s side, shields together, forming a wall. He blinked, trying to clear his head as the three of them took a step forward, making Azog step back.

Thorin ran forward, taking his place between Morag and Fili, his sword raised high.  
“Heirs of Durin!” he shouted as a battle cry, Morag, Fili and Kili joining in as they raised their blades. They stepped forward as one, closer and closer until they separated and encircled the pale Orc. But Azog was more agile than most. He avoided most of their blows, receiving only small cuts on his legs. He snarled at them as he tried to land his own, only for them to duck or block it. Finally he let out a massive roar and went to jab at Morag. Kili moved his shield to help block the blow, only for Azog to feint and stab Thorin. He had caught the Dwarf Prince completely off guard, his sword raised to deflect the blow from his daughter. Thorin’s fingers slackened, his blade clattering to the ground.  
“No!” Kili yelled, dropping his shield and charging forward. Azog swirled round and cut Kili down with a blow to the shoulder and chest.  
“Kili!”  
“Fili, no,” Morag tried to stop him. Fili raced forwards and landed a blow across Azog’s back, making the Orc howl and spin around. There was a sickening crunch as the blunt edge of his blade made contact with Fili’s head. Morag watched as the second brother fell, tightening her grip on her shield and raising it a little. A hot surge of anger rose up in her and she took a deep breath.  
“No more!” she said, lifting her sword, ignoring her aching muscles and joints, “No more!” Azog grinned as he started to advance on her. Morag began to run, sword raised, screaming in fury. At the last moment, she dropped to the floor, skidding slightly as Azog stepped over her. She climbed to her feet in a second and slashed across the backs of Azog’s legs. He howled in pain and fell to the ground, bringing him down to her height. Before he had chance to react, Morag summoned the last of her strength and drove her blade through Azog’s spine, right at the neck. He made a gasping sound and then a choking noise before crashing face first onto the floor.

For a moment, all was quiet and still as Morag circled the pale Orc, watching for any signs of life. There was nothing. She could see the sword sticking out the front of his throat. He wasn’t coming back from that one. She glanced over him and saw there was mere inches between Azog and the edge of the tower. She dropped her shield and pushed him with her foot. His legs moved until they were dangling over the edge. One final shove and the corpse of the Defiler cascaded over the side and down to the bottom of the tower. Watching him disappear, a wave of relief washed over Morag and she sobbed, smiling. A screech came over her shoulder. She looked up to see the Eagles of the Misty Mountains swooping over her and down towards the battle. It was turning, the Orcs were being beaten back. A wave of gold from Thranduil’s army was sweeping over the Orcs, cutting them down.  
“We did it,” she breathed, turning around. Fili and Kili lay still on the ground. She moved towards them, she could see they were not breathing. She bent down by Fili and touched his wrist. He had no pulse. Reaching over to Kili, she couldn’t find his either. The two brothers had been cut down by Azog.  
“Morag…” a strangled voice spoke. She looked up. Thorin was looking at her. One hand clutched his belly where he’d been stabbed, the other reached out to her.  
“Thorin,” she said, unable to believe it. He was still alive.

 


	25. Adad

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some Khuzdal in this chapter, in italics.

“Thorin,” Morag breathed as she stumbled forward, her knees suddenly feeling unable to hold up her weight.

“Thorin!” she cried, hurrying along as fast as she could. Her legs gave out just a few feet from him and she crawled the rest of the way until she was knelt at his side.

“Morag…” Thorin’s voice was strained. Morag took hold of the hand he held out to her with her right hand, her left going to his head, pushing his hair out of his face.

“I’m sorry,” Thorin panted, “For everything. For the names I called you…I was so angry with myself, for leaving you and your mother out in the wild all those years, for not looking sooner.”  
“It’s not your fault, you didn’t know,” Morag said softly, feeling drained suddenly.  
“I loved her…with all my heart,” Thorin continued, “Your mother. She was passionate, about everything, about the world, herself…me. I should have taken her home with me, we could have raised you together. But she did a fine job by herself, I can see that.”  
“We all make mistakes,” Morag said, tightening her grip on his hand as Thorin coughed, blood starting to seep over his fingers from his wound. He didn’t have a lot of time left, and she knew it.  
“I shouldn’t have treated you the way I did,” Thorin said, “I was too focussed on my nephews…everything I did, I did it for them. I should have done it for you. I should taken back Erebor for you.”

Morag blinked back tears. Thorin’s words were sincere, heartfelt, and utterly heart breaking. Every word was exactly what she had wanted to hear him say in the deepest recesses of her heart.  
“Thorin…” she said, fighting the urge to cry.  
“ _Adad_ ,” Thorin said, “I’m your  _Adad_.”  
“ _Adad_ ,” Morag repeated, “What does that mean?”  
“It means father,” Thorin said, lifting his hand to touch her cheek, “I am your  _Adad_  and you are  _Nathithuh_ , my daughter. I’m sorry it took me so long to say it.”  
“ _Adad_ ,” Morag said, taking a deep, shuddering breath to disguise a sob.  
“Does he make you happy? The Elf-King?” Thorin asked, his voice barely louder than breath now.  
“Yes,” Morag said without thinking, “He does.”  
“Then I leave this life, knowing my daughter is happy,” Thorin said, his fingers moving against her cheek, “He will take care of you, and the child.”  
“How did you…”  
“I know the signs,” Thorin half-smiled as he spoke, “Your beard for one. And you kept yourself turned, so Azog couldn’t strike your belly.”  
“I thought you’d hate the idea,” Morag said, “Of a half-Elf grandchild?”  
“I do,” Thorin said, “But you love him, I can see that. And that’s all I want for you, to know love with a willing heart.” His smile began to falter, his breathing was getting shallow. His hand fell from her face and his eyes closed.  
“Thorin?” Morag said, shaking him slightly, “Thorin?!  _Adad_!”

*

Thranduil lifted his head at the sound of a female voice crying out. He knew that voice. He knew it. Even from the bottom of Ravenhill, he knew that voice. But it couldn’t be, he’d seen her fall. Dropped into the ravine by the Defiler, there was no chance she was alive. His eyes and his ears were busy disagreeing with each other, but his heart was crying out clear as a bell. Follow the voice. He ran up the stairs, ignoring the calls of Legolas and Tauriel as they followed him. He had to know. To know if it was really her, if it was really Morag. He had to know if she was still alive, if there was still hope. He could hear the heavy footsteps of Dwarves behind him, though they grew fainter as he sped ahead. They were shouting out Thorin’s name, the names of his nephews as well. No one was calling for Morag. Thranduil didn’t slow down, he barely drew breath until at last he emerged on the top of Ravenhill.

He saw the two brothers first, Fili and Kili, lying next to each other. Already the cost to the Dwarves was great, Thorin’s two heirs were gone. As he looked around, he could hear a woman sobbing. His eyes fell on her. He knew her straight away.  
“Morag,” he breathed. She was bent over Thorin’s body, her upper body shaking, her hands stained with blood.  
“ _Adad_ ,” she sobbed, “ _Adad_.” Thranduil felt his heart clench. He knew enough of the Dwarven tongue to know she was saying ‘Father’. It pained him to see her so upset, but at the same time, he couldn’t express the joy he felt at seeing her alive.  
“Morag,” he said again as he heard the Dwarves begin to catch up. She sniffed and looked up at him.  
“I tried to save him,” she whimpered, “I tried.”  
“I know,” Thranduil said, moving to her side and kneeling next to her. He pulled her into his arms.  
“He told me to call him  _Adad_ ,” she said as he took her hands in one of his, “He said he was sorry!” Thranduil had never seen her this low, never seen her heart break. He didn’t know what else to do.  
“He said he was sorry!” she cried, leaning into him, tears streaming down her cheeks, “ _Adad_!”  
“Thorin! Fili! Kili!” the voices of the Dwarves sounded as they emerged on the top of Ravenhill. Silence fell as they took in the sight of the three fallen Sons of Durin. Bilbo and Balin fell to their knees, the Hobbit in tears. Thranduil began to pull away, he had no place here.  
“Thranduil, don’t leave me,” Morag whispered to him, grabbing his arms, “Take me away from here, please.” He put his free arm around her waist and helped her to her feet, guiding her away from the dead. She hissed in pain as she jostled one shoulder.

He knew there was a reason she wanted to be away from the Dwarves, and it wasn’t that she didn’t want to watch them grieve. He needed to get her to someone who could check her for injuries. No one dropped from the top of a tower and returned unhurt.  
“The battle is won, then?” she said as they began to descend the stairs, slowly. He could see she was cradling the arm of the jostled shoulder. She was not alright. Exhaustion, relief, they were going to overwhelm her soon.  
“Yes,” Thranduil replied, still holding her tightly, “Though there has been great loss on all sides. I thought you were dead.”  
“It’s going to take more than an Orc dropping me off a tower to put an end to me,” Morag said, “Thranduil, there’s something I have to tell you.”  
“Yes?” Thranduil said, his heart beating quicker as she spoke.  
“I….I…” she struggled to find her words and looked up at him as they reached the bottom of the first stairs. Her grey eyes seemed to shine in the winter sunlight as a relaxed smile came to her face.  
“I’m with child, your child,” she said calmly, “I swear there has been no one else.” Thranduil smiled down at her.  
“I know,” he said, “I know there has been no other, and I know about the child.”  
“You do?” she seemed relieved.  
“The Elves can always tell,” he said, “We feel it when our spirit joins with another to make new life. I knew from the moment you conceived.”  
“Really?” Morag said, “Why didn’t you tell me?”  
“I wanted you to stay for yourself, not for me,” he answered, “You would have felt trapped.”  
“Thranduil, if I had known, I never would have gotten into those barrels,” she said, “I would have stayed.”  
“I know,” he said, “And you would have resented that decision when Thorin had fallen. You would have blamed yourself.”  
“When did it happen?” Morag asked as they turned to head down another set of stairs.  
“The night you showed me your scars,” Thranduil said, “The first time you opened up to me completely, and I fell in love with what I found.”  
“How can you love me?” Morag said, her head leaning on his arm, “I’m rude, wild and stubborn as a mule.”  
“I find you honest, passionate and determined,” Thranduil said, feeling her weight lean on him more and more, “I can only hope our child inherits that.”  
“Thranduil?”  
“Yes, my love?”  
“I want to go back to Mirkwood,” Morag said, slowing down, “I want to go home with you.”  
“And so you shall,” he replied, bending down a little to scoop her up and carry her the rest of the way down, “I would do anything for you, and for our little one.”  
“I feel so tired,” she mumbled, her arms going around his neck.  
“Rest, my love,” Thranduil said, “I will protect you both, I promise.”

 


	26. Erebor

Morag knew the sun was rising, her body was automatically starting to wake up. She made to get up but stopped as her shoulder ached. She felt a strong hand push her back down.  
“Where are you going?” Thranduil’s voice was slightly slurred from sleep. He had only returned an hour or so before, overseeing the long, drawn-out process of sorting the bodies on the battlefield, that had so far taken two days. The Dwarves and Lakemen were helping but only the Elves were able to work round the clock, and even they tired eventually. 

It wasn’t until Galion and Feren had come to relieve him that he had returned to his tent and climbed into the bed next to Morag. It felt good, and strange at the same time, to be pulled into his arms as he settled into sleep, to feel his hand skim over her stomach. He said he could feel the spirit of the child and it seemed to calm him, if the deep, contented sigh he made as he did so was anything to go by.  
“I’m not going anywhere,” she said, sinking back down to rest her head on his chest.  
“Good,” Thranduil replied, his arms wrapping tighter around her as he shifted them so he lay on his side with her cradled against him. The blankets were wrapped around her, leaving the Elf-King exposed, though he did not seem to feel any chill.

Morag smiled slightly. Even if he wasn’t aware of what he was doing, she knew. She had seen men try to hide fear or excitement before, but there was always a sign. It may be the way their hands were positioned, or the way they stood, there was always something that told how they were feeling. Even with her eyes closed, she knew Thranduil was feeling protective. He was holding her close, his broad body was hiding her from view of anyone who may walk in. He was hiding her, shielding her from anyone who may do harm to her, and their child.  
“What thoughts are in your mind?” his voice was low, sleepy almost, as if he was dozing whilst talking.  
“The future,” she whispered her confession, “I’ve never given it much thought before.”  
“If you would like, I can tell you what I know will happen,” he replied, one of his hands beginning to comb through her hair, easing out the knots.  
“Enlighten me then,” she said, leaning into him.  
“We will return to my realm,” Thranduil began, “Your belly will grow, and I will be at your side the whole time.”  
“Will you stay with me when I give birth?” Morag asked.   
“Does it worry you?” Thranduil replied, his hands moving to her back, gently rubbing to soothe her. He pressed one on her aching shoulder, the heat easing the pain slightly.  
“Yes,” she answered.  
“I understand why,” Thranduil said, “I promise, nothing will happen to you. Our child will arrive safely, and you will be in the very best of care.”  
“I was born in a tent,” Morag said, “If hadn’t been for the midwife, I’d have fallen onto dirt. I never thought I’d be a mother, much less one whose father is a King.”  
“They will be lucky to have you as their mother,” Thranduil said, “But, Morag, my dear, there is a matter of importance I must explain. You will not be queen, I cannot marry you. I have already wed once, and I cannot do so again.”  
“I don’t want a crown,” Morag said, “I don’t want to replace anyone, much less Legolas’ mother. I just want you, by my side. I need you to help me with this…because I have no idea what I’m doing.”  
“And you think I do?” Thranduil said.  
“If this one turns out half as good as Legolas has,” Morag said, “I’ll consider it a job well done. Have you told him yet? I’m sure he’s excited to have a sibling.”  
“I have not,” Thranduil said, “He…he will not be returning to Mirkwood with us. I rescinded Tauriel’s banishment but she took the death of your cousin, Kili, very hard.”  
“Thranduil?”  
“She is grief-stricken,” Thranduil said, “Legolas cares for her so much, but her heart is breaking, he cannot heal it and cannot bear to watch. He plans to travel, explore the world. Perhaps you could advise him. He has never ventured far beyond our borders before.”  
“I’ll talk to him, I promise,” Morag said, “I’ll tell him about the baby too.”  
“Thank you, my love,” Thranduil said softly, bending to kiss the top of her head, “At least, I know I will not have to bear this burden alone this time.”

They had settled back down and were almost to sleep again when a voice came from outside the tent.  
“Morag! Morag!”  
She sat up at the sound of her name.  
“Balin?” she called back.  
“Should I come in lass?”  
“Not unless you want to see the Elven-King’s bare ass,” she called back, pulling out of Thranduil’s arms and retrieving her clothes, ignoring the pain in her shoulder. Thranduil muttered under his breath as he rolled under the blankets. Balin remained quiet on the other side of the tent door. Once dressed, Morag looked over to see Thranduil was now completely covered before pulling the tent open. Balin didn’t look too pleased.  
“What are you doing here?” Morag asked.  
“Beats listening to Bofur complain about his haemorrhoids,” Balin said, he sounded tired, “You’ve been asked for, lass.”  
“By who? You all know where I am,” she said.  
“By Lady Dis,” Balin said, “Thorin’s sister. She’s asked for you, wants your help. Unless you’re back to being the sprite’s prisoner.”  
“She is no prisoner,” Thranduil spoke behind Morag, making her jump slightly. He had gotten up and dressed without her noticing.  
“And I am no mere sprite, despite Dain’s claims,” Thranduil said, “If Lady Dis wishes for Morag to see her, that is Morag’s decision.”  
“What does she want my help with?” Morag asked.  
“Traditionally, the women of the royal family prepare the men for burial,” Balin said, “Normally it’s only one to bury though. Dis is in grieving for her brother and her sons. There are no other women though. Her mother is long dead, and Dis was the only daughter. You are the only other woman of Durin’s Line left. She wants to meet you, and have your help.”  
“I’ll come,” Morag said, “But I only have one arm of any use, I have to rest the other.”  
“One hands better than nothing,” Balin said, “I’ll wait by the gate for ye.” Morag nodded and he left.

Morag sat in a chair and began to pull her boots on but found her hands being swatted away as Thranduil took over the job.   
“You cannot pull these on yourself without further damaging yourself,” he said simply, “Where is your coat?”  
“Lying in the middle of the road somewhere,” Morag said, “The Orcs took it off me, I think they thought I had weapons hidden in it.”  
“You will be cold,” Thranduil said.  
“I will be fine,” Morag said, “It’s not a long journey to the mountain, the Dwarves will have the fires lit. I’m a big girl, I’ll be fine.”  
“You are not the reason I worry,” Thranduil said, his hand sliding up to her stomach, “Your health is our child’s health. Forgive me if I worry constantly, about both of you.”  
“Thranduil, are you going to fret like an old woman for the next eight months?”  
“Every day,” Thranduil said, reaching up to kiss her cheek, “Gi melian, Morag.  
“Gi melian, Thranduil,” she replied.

It was just over an hour later that Morag and Balin were slowly making their way across the battlefield that lay between Dale and Erebor. The old road had been churned up in the battle and was clogged with mud. A cold wind blew down from the top of the mountain. Sigrid had lent her a scarf and shawl for the day and Morag pulled them tighter around herself with one hand, her injured arm in a sling.  
“So, lass,” Balin said, “You and the Elf-King. It’s true then?”  
“Yeah,” Morag answered.  
“Why?”  
“Oh, I don’t know,” she said sarcastically, “Tall, handsome, rich, or maybe, just maybe, because he doesn’t seem to care about who my parents are. He likes…he loves me for me.”  
“Love?” Balin said, “I thought you were just having a bit o’fun with him, lass. Then again, I always thought Thorin and ye mother were ‘jus’ a bit o’fun’.”  
“I know Thorin loved my mother,” Morag said, “He told me, before he died. He used his last moments in this world to try and fix things.”  
“He was distraught when ye fell from Ravenhill,” said Balin, “We all were. We may not have got on with ye, but we never truly wished death on ye. Poor Ori looked about ready to burst into tears.” Morag was silent for a moment.  
“I should have come sooner,” she said as they approached the gate to Erebor. A team of Dwarves were working to repair it.  
“No, lass,” Balin said, “Ye were hurt and tired. If ye’d come sooner, ye would have been poked at and prodded and questioned by Dain and anyone else who laid eyes on ye. No, now is good. Word has spread, and they know to stand back.”  
“Halt! Who do bring with you, Balin, son of Fundin?” a voice called from the top of the remains of the gate.  
“I bring Morag, daughter of Thorin,” Balin called back, “Ye nosey git!” Morag stifled a laugh as she followed Balin in.

She stared up at the massive pillars and tall ceilings as Balin led her through. This was just the entrance, and despite the strong smell of dragon, it was magnificent. She could just imagine what it had looked like in it’s heyday, with the lamps lit, the metal work gleaming. She could hear the Dwarves whispering so she brought her gaze down. The hall was filled with Dwarves, some male, some female. It looked like supply caravans from the Iron Hills were arriving, along with people coming to colonise Erebor. They were staring, some were even pointing. She must look more out of place then she realised.   
“Ignore ‘em, lass,” Balin said, “They’re just busybodies who are loving the gossip that Thorin fathered a bastard…no offence.”  
“None taken,” Morag said, “I am one after all.” Balin led her away from the crowds of Dwarves and into some quieter corridors, guarded by soldiers who only came up to Morag’s chin.  
“Royal quarters,” Balin explained, “This way.” He turned left. Morag began to notice a definite chill in the air. No fires had been lit. Eventually Balin stopped and banged his fist on a large stone door twice before pushing it open.  
“I’ve got Morag here,” he said, poking his head around the door, “She may not be much help, one arm is in a sling, but I figured you need company just as much.”  
“Thank you Balin,” a low voice answered, “Let her in and leave us.” Balin stepped back and let Morag step in.

Dis was not as tall as her brother. In fact she was probably a full foot shorter than Morag. Her hair was dark with no hint of grey, her beard was short and straight and she looked exhausted.  
“Hello Morag,” she said, her hands on her hips. Her voice was deep for a woman, but Morag had expected it.  
“You must be Dis, Thorin’s sister,” Morag said, bowing her head slightly.  
“And your aunt,” Dis said, “You look like a stranger…until I get to your eyes. They’re Thorin’s eyes.” She cast a glance over her shoulder. Morag looked past her and saw three stone tables. On the middle one, Morag recognised Thorin’s dark hair with silver streaks. On the left lay Fili and on the right, Kili.  
“What do you want me to do?” Morag asked. Dis offered her a small smile.  
“You’re helping just by being here.”

 


	27. This Little Family

Dis didn’t speak much save for giving Morag the simple task of combing out Thorin’s beard. She remained absolutely silent was she washed Kili’s face and hands. It was when she began to clean his nails that she made a noise. It was half-sob, half-laugh.  
“Are you alright?” Morag asked.  
“He used to fight me when I did this when he was little,” Dis said quietly, “Fili would have him tracking…goodness knows where and they always came back filthy. I used to make them strip off outside and tip buckets of cold water over their heads. Fili was good at cleaning himself but I had wrestle with Kili to get his nails clean. Eventually he got too big and strong for me to handle and Thorin would to help me.” 

She smiled sadly, Morag could even see tears in her eyes. She glanced down at her own hands. Her nails were fairly clean, though not exactly pristine.  
“Thorin was so good with them,” Dis continued as she ran the nail brush across Kili’s hand, “He would have been a good father to you if he’d had the chance.” Morag didn’t say anything. She couldn’t even bring herself to think about the times Thorin had been downright cruel to her. It was all anger, aimed at himself she knew now.  
“I think it was guilt,” Dis said, drawing Morag from her thoughts, “Guilt that made him devote so much time to my boys. He always blamed himself for the death of their father.”  
“How did he die?”  
“Ziran?” Dis said, “He…he went with Thorin, to trade at a market in a town of Men. Thorin promised he would keep an eye on Ziran…but he couldn’t always. My husband had a bit of a hot temper and wasn’t the sharpest tool in the box. He got drunk and picked a fight with the wrong people. By the time Thorin found him, he was half-dead and there was nothing Thorin could do. Kili was just a baby then, and Fili cried for a long time for his father. Ziran had many faults, but he was a good father to our boys. Thorin just…tried to fill the gap.”  
“I’m sorry,” Morag said.   
“It’s not your fault, it all happened before you were born,” Dis said, “Tell me about your mother. I want to know what kind of woman drew my brother’s eye when none of our own race did.”  
“Her name was Isrid,” Morag said, turning back to combing Thorin’s beard. He looked peaceful, like he was sleeping.  
“People tell me I’m just like her,” she said, “She had this beautiful golden brown hair though, it was always so soft and straight, and her eyes…they were green, like a pine tree’s needles. She told me so many stories when I was little about Princesses growing up in the wilds, fighting side by side with their brothers and fathers. No fairy stories about being locked in towers and waiting for their Prince to come save them.”  
“Sound like Dwarf stories to me,” Dis said as she finished Kili’s hands, “What happened to her?”  
“She died,” Morag said, “Orc ambush. She went hunting with our Chieftain, Arathorn, and left me behind to guard the rest of our people. Every five years we gathered for a moot, to discuss what we had done and what was happening in the world. This one was special, Arathorn had become a father, and there was to be a great feast to celebrate. They went hunting…and never came back. I didn’t get to say goodbye to her. Our last words were ones of anger, where she accused me of still being a little girl. I told her that I never wanted to see her again, that when the moot was over, I was leaving with another group. She then got on her horse and that was the last time I saw her alive. She must have died hating me.”  
“Never,” Dis said, “A mother never hates her children. She would have died still loving you, knowing your words were just that, words.” She put down her nail brush and walked over to Morag, squeezing her shoulder.  
“You’d have done her proud,” Dis said, “I know the others in the Company are proud of you. Ori won’t stop raving about how patient you were with him, every time he got stuck. He says you saved him from drowning once.”  
“Oh, really? Did he tell you that it was because of your sons I had to keep saving him?” Morag asked. Dis cast an exasperated glance at Kili and then Fili.  
“I’m honestly not surprised,” she said, waving her hand. She walked back over to Kili and started washing his other hand. The pair resumed their work in silence.

*

It was a long day, but all three Heirs of Durin were cleaned, their hair and beards combed, ready to be buried. Morag knew the next day was going to be a long day too, and she was already beginning to feel weary. This baby in her belly was already beginning to drain her. She hadn’t mentioned the baby to Dis, though she suspected the Dwarf-woman at least knew she was involved with Thranduil. Balin hadn’t mentioned anything either. Dis walked Morag back to the main halls so she could start making her way back to Dale. Morag had declined the offer to stay the night. The last thing she needed was Thranduil thinking the Dwarves had refused to let her leave and him mustering his army on the doorstep…again.  
  


As the pair reached the gate, Morag noticed Tauriel was helping clear the last few bodies from the battlefield. Fires were already burning with the Orc corpses, their flames reflecting on the she-elf’s long red hair.  
“Are you sure you won’t stay tonight?” Dis asked, “It’s a long walk back to Dale.”  
“I have…someone waiting for me,” Morag said. Dis didn’t smile but gave her a knowing look.  
“The Elf-King?” she asked. Morag wasn’t sure how to answer that.  
“Between them, the lads have all told me about you and King Thranduil,” Dis said, “How did he react to finding out you were half-Dwarf?”  
“I think he’s still in denial,” Morag said, “But…he tells me he loves me, scars and all.”  
“We are lucky ones, aren’t we?” Dis said, “Not every Dwarf woman gets to experience true love.”  
“I thought there were two men to every woman?” Morag said.  
“Yes, but love is fickle,” Dis said, “I was lucky. My Ziran worshipped the ground I walked on, he didn’t ask me to be his wife, he begged, down on his knees because he thought himself not worthy.”  
“Th…” Morag started before stopping herself.  
“You can tell me,” Dis said, “I’ll just pretend to hear a Dwarf name.”  
“Thranduil doesn’t see my faults,” Morag said, smiling, “He doesn’t see it as me being rude, stubborn and wild. He sees honesty, passion and determination. He tells me I’m strong, he respects the scars I have because he thinks they’re proof of that. He…he treats me like I am his Queen.”  
“And that, my dear, is a King’s love,” Dis said, “I wish my boys had the chance to experience that.” Morag looked back out towards Tauriel.  
“I think there is someone you should talk to then,” she said, “Tauriel!” The she-elf stopped what she was doing, her head turning at the sound of her name. She turned and saw Morag, elegantly trotting over the ground to the pair, ignoring the pained looks of the Dwarves as an Elf trod on their land. Tauriel stopped just a few feet from them, looking hesitant.  
“Dis, this is Tauriel,” Morag said, “Tauriel, this is Kili’s mother, Dis.” Morag saw Tauriel’s hand reach for a small cloth pouch attached to her belt and a look of nerves spread across the she-elf’s face.  
“I think you two need to talk,” Morag said, looking from one to the other, “Dis, I shall see you tomorrow.” She turned and began to head down the mud-splattered road.

She felt exhausted, physically and emotionally as she walked back into Dale. She wanted something hot to eat and drink and then bed, preferably with Thranduil but she doubted she wouldn’t find a rock comfortable at that point.  
“Morag, are you alright?” a soft, lilting voice spoke on her right side. Looking up, she saw the familiar features of Legolas.  
“Aye, yes,” she said, “Just tired. What are you doing here?”  
“Ada asked that I wait for your return,” Legolas said, falling into step beside her, “He wanted to make sure you came straight back for dinner.”  
“Of course he did,” Morag said, “He’s fretting like an old woman.”  
“Fretting?” Legolas asked. Morag smiled.  
“He’s worrying,” she explained, “About nothing.”  
“My father does not worry about nothing,” Legolas said slowly, “But he does seem to think you wanted to speak to me.”  
“I do actually,” Morag said as they turned onto the street that led to the old throne room. The street was eerily quiet.  
“I don’t know if he’s told you, but I am going to back to your realm with him,” she said, “And I’m staying.”  
“He did say that was what you wished,” Legolas said.  
“He also told me you intend to travel,” Morag continued. Legolas nodded.  
“Well, I can point you in the direction of some friends of mine who will help you explore,” Morag said, “But I need you to promise me something.”  
“What is it?”  
“I need you to promise that in eight months, you will return to your father’s halls,” she said, “To meet your new brother or sister.” Legolas’ step faltered.  
“You…you are…” he stumbled over his words, “You are with child?!” Morag nodded. The Prince’s face lit up with a small smile.  
“I always wanted a sibling,” he said, “I…I never thought I would get my wish.”  
“Well, you are,” Morag said, “And I expect you to be around. I have no clue what I’m doing and could use every helping hand I can get.”  
“Of course,” Legolas said, “I would be glad to help. Does this mean I should call you Naneth?”  
“Call me mother in any language and I will skin you alive,” Morag warned him.  
“Noted,” Legolas said, fighting a grin. Morag shook her head as she stepped into the throne room. There is it was. Thranduil’s tent, and her chance to sit down.

When they entered the tent, Legolas went straight to his father and spoke quietly with him. Smiles appeared on both their faces and Morag realised Legolas had inherited his from Thranduil. It struck her that one day she may have three of those smiles aimed at her. She sat down on a chair, lifting her tired feet to rest on another and resting her free hand on her stomach.  
“You look exhausted,” Thranduil said, walking over to her, his hand covering hers.  
“I feel it,” she said, “Please tell me that dinner will not be long. I couldn’t eat much of the Dwarvish stuff they gave us.  _Cram_  they called it, smelt vile.”  
“Galion informed me it was almost ready not long ago,” Thranduil said, “Are you sure about attending tomorrow?”  
“If I don’t attend my father’s funeral, I’m going to regret it,” Morag said, “It’s just this little one you kindly left in me that’s draining me.”  
“It will only be for a short time,” Thranduil said, brushing her hair from her face, “But you will tire more easily.”  
“I best not plan any walking holidays,” Morag mumbled, adjusting her feet to get them comfortable.  
“Best not,” Thranduil agreed, lifting her feet and sitting with them in his lap. He pulled her boots off for her. She sighed in contentment as she flexed her toes.  
“Answer me something,” she said, leaning her head back against the chair, “Did Legolas’ mother get really fat with him?”  
“Morag, in all honesty, she waddled like a duck for the last two months,” Thranduil said. Morag let out an exasperated groan.  
“Should have said no, rolled over and crossed my legs,” she muttered.  
“I think this conversation should end here,” Legolas said, handing his father a cup of wine. Morag looked up and Legolas handed her a cup.  
“Water for mother,” he said.  
“What did I tell you about calling me mother?” Morag said, casting him a half-hearted glare as he sat himself in the chair furthest from her. Morag smiled. She felt reassured that whatever happened the next day, however the funeral went, she would have this little family to come home to.

 


	28. Inheritance

Morag looked around the large atrium chamber, the Dwarves were starting to slowly walk in. The chamber was dimly lit by hundreds of large pillar candles that cast a soft golden glow over the three stone coffins in the centre. She jumped slightly when she felt Thranduil’s large warm hand close over her own clasped ones. She knew the Dwarves were staring at the odd little group at the front. Three Elves, two humans, a Hobbit and a Wizard deep in the Dwarves mountain Kingdom was something no Dwarf had ever seen.

 Morag took a deep breath. It had finally sunk in what was happening today. She was saying goodbye to the last few relatives she had. Her father, the man who had sired her, was gone, her two cousins were gone as well. She breathed out, it shook in her lungs. Thranduil’s hand fought it’s way between hers and linked his fingers with hers. She knew she could let go here, she could cry, let everything out and no one would think any less of her. If she could let it out, she could lean on Thranduil and he would be steady as a rock. Her free hand moved to her stomach. Her sickness had started up again late the night before and continued up into the morning. She had been worried that she wouldn’t be able to attend but it had finally abated enough for her to make the walk to Erebor.

Silence descended over the chamber for a moment before a low voice came.  
“Far over the Misty Mountains cold, To dungeons deep and caverns old…”  
“We must away ere break of day, To seek the pale enchanted gold,” more voices joined in, “The dwarves of yore made mighty spells, While hammers fell like ringing bells.”  
“In places deep, where dark things sleep,” Morag could hear Dwalin’s growl, “In hollow halls beneath the fells.”  
“For ancient king and elvish lord,” she joined in, “There many a gleaming golden hoard.” The Dwarves had sang this many times on their journey and she could remember the words. Her eyes stung with tears. The song sounded off without Thorin’s deep voice in the chorus, without Fili and Kili’s odd concept of the tune. She had to stop before the final verse, her voice shaking as tears fell. Thranduil’s hand released hers, his arm moving around her shoulder, pulling her in close. Her hand grasped his robe as her upper body shook. She felt weak, drained and she felt the urge to go curl up in a corner somewhere until this was all over. She turned her face away from the coffins and buried it in Thranduil’s side. His heat and scent brought some comfort, as did the scent from her coat. Thranduil had sent someone to retrieve it the day before, and for that Morag was thankful.

Someone touched her arm and she looked up. It was Balin. She pulled away from Thranduil and sat up straight.  
“Come with me, lass,” the old Dwarf said gently before nodding to Thranduil. Morag stood up and followed Balin who pulled something out from his coat. It looked like a rune stone, much like the one she had seen in Kili’s possession.  
“At our people’s funerals, if we can, we give the dead something,” Balin said, “A token of our bond, be it blood or friendship. This stone came from the slopes outside Moria. I picked it up after our first battle against the Defiler, to keep as a memory of our loss, and the day Thorin came into his own.” He sighed as he reached into Thorin’s coffin and placed it next to the body. Morag glanced over her shoulder and saw Dis clutching some knitted squares and placing one on Fili. On the other side of Thorin, Tauriel was placing a small stone next to Kili and whispering something under her breath.  
“I have nothing to give,” Morag said, “Except…” She reached into her coat’s inside pocket. Her contract was still in there and she pulled it out. She quickly opened it and found the signed part at the bottom. She took a deep breath. It was signed, ‘Thorin, son of Thrain, Morag, daughter of Thorin’.

She quickly began to tear the parchment, ripping around the signatures. She looked down at Thorin. His hands were folded on his chest. Tucking the rest of the contract under one arm, she leaned in and tucked the small scrap of parchment under his cold hands.  
“Goodbye  _Adad_ ,” she whispered before she stepped away. She spotted a cluster of candles near the foot of the coffin. She moved towards it and held the contract over it.  
“What are you doing, lass?” Balin asked.  
“Burning it,” she said, “These are the last of Thorin’s hateful words to me, and I’m destroying them.” The parchment caught the flame and began to burn. Morag held it for as long as she could, until just one corner remained which she dropped onto the candles.  
“Well done, Morag,” Balin said, “Thorin would be grateful for that.” He smiled at her as she turned to see Thranduil and Legolas stood by Thorin. Legolas handed the sword he’d been carrying to his father and Thranduil laid it in the coffin beside Thorin, saying something quietly.  
“Orcrist,” Morag said, remembering the sword’s name, “He’s given him Orcrist.”  
“But by rights, that sword belongs to the Elves,” Balin said, “It was forged by them, in ancient times.”  
“It came into Thranduil’s possession,” Morag replied, “He can do what he wishes with it.”  
“Indeed, and such a gift will not be forgotten by anyone here,” Balin said as they began to walk back to the seats, “I wish you were staying. There is so much you have to learn about your father’s folk.”  
“I’m only going to Mirkwood,” she said, “I can always come visit.”  
“And you’ll bring the bairn?” Balin asked quietly so no one else could hear. Morag looked at him in surprise.  
“How did you…” she started, “Yes, I’ll bring the little one.” Balin smiled again, patting her on the arm before she returned to sit by Thranduil again. Thranduil’s hand immediately joined with hers as a steady line of Dwarves walked past to leave their gifts with the deceased.

*

The only way Morag could describe the way she felt after the funeral was relieved. Even her stomach felt more settled though all she wanted to do was go back to bed and sleep for a week. She was too tired to even think about the tension coming from Tauriel and Legolas. Being around each other for just a few hours had rendered both of them silent. They did not look at each other, avoided being next to each other. Tauriel even walked a few feet behind them to avoid him. Bard was trying to engage her in friendly conversation, trying to thank her for helping his children in their escape from Laketown but he wasn’t getting anywhere. She didn’t want to talk to anyone, she was grieving in a way she had never experienced before. She was heartbroken.  
“Morag, wait!” Dain Ironfoot’s booming voice echoed across the hall. She stopped and turned to find the new King Under the Mountain hurrying over to her.  
“Balin said you’d be leaving Dale soon,” he said, “I have something to give you ere you go.” He whistled sharply and four young Dwarves came running forward. They carried two heavy looking chests between them which they dropped at Morag’s feet.  
“What is this?” Morag asked.  
“Well, this was meant to be Thorin’s share of the hoard,” Dain said, “I’ve plenty wealth myself so it seemed only fit that his share go to you, his daughter.” Morag crouched down and opened one of the chests. Laying right on the top was a sparkling necklace. It was too fine and delicate to be of Dwarvish origin. This had to be it, this had to be the necklace that had belonged to Thranduil’s wife.  
“Balin and the others said these would have been the pieces that Thorin would have chosen,” Dain said, “I’m not sure what’s in them, save there is no Arkenstone in there.” He laughed at his little joke.  
“Actually not everything in here belonged to the Dwarves,” Morag said, standing up, “Legolas, I believe these belong to you.” She extended her closed hand towards the Prince. He looked at her hand, confused for a moment before extending his own.

Morag opened her hand over his and a thin chain decorated with white and silver fell onto his palm, the gems glinting like starlight. Thranduil breathed in sharply.  
“These belonged to my mother,” Legolas said quietly.  
“I know,” Morag said as he stared at them in fascination. She looked back down at the two chests. She had no need for this wealth, not when she was returning to Mirkwood with Thranduil.  
“Thank you, Dain,” she said pointedly. The Dwarf King nodded and left with his four young helpers.  
“Legolas, I have an errand for you,” Morag said, “You wanted to travel, yes?” Legolas looked up and nodded.  
“I want you to take one of these to Lord Elrond in Rivendell,” she said, “Tell him it is to be given to any of the Dunedain who need it.”  
“And the other?” he asked.  
“After Rivendell, go south, to Rohan,” she said, “Go to the capital, Edoras, and when you get there, look for my kin, and give it to them. Tell them it’s a gift from me, tell them that I’m alive and well but I won’t be returning. Tell them…I will miss them and I hope this gift helps them.” Legolas nodded.  
“Thank you, Morag,” he said.  
“Would you and Tauriel carry these back for me?” Morag asked. Legolas nodded, returning the gems to the chest and closing it. He lifted it as Tauriel picked up the other. They left the hall with Bard. Morag and Thranduil were about to follow.  
“Morag!” another voice called out.  
“We’re never getting out of here,” she muttered, turning to see Dis walking over, “Go on, Thranduil. I’ll come when she’s spoken to me.” Thranduil pressed a kiss to her temple before leaving. Morag watched him go, wistfully thinking of the nap she longed to take.   
“Lady Dis,” Morag said as the Dwarf-woman stopped in front of her. Dis handed a bundle over to her.  
“What’s this?” Morag asked.  
“Take a look,” Dis said. Morag unwrapped the linen bundle to reveal a woollen blanket of rich blue with golden thread woven into it.  
“I was wrapped up in that blanket the day the dragon came,” Dis said, “Thorin carried me out of here with it over my head so I couldn’t see the destruction. It was our brother Frerin’s before me, Thorin’s before him. It was Fili’s and then Kili’s.”  
“Is this…”  
“A baby blanket,” Dis said, “Yes, I know.” Morag’s hands tightened on the blanket.   
“How…”  
“Balin said you never used to have a beard,” said Dis, “You’ve kept a hand on your belly all day, you look exhausted and the Elf-King looked every inch the protective father when he was sat with you.”   
“It’s been in the family for generations,” Dis continued her hand stroking the fabric, “And with you being the next one to have a child, it belongs to you. Wrap your little one in this, and tell them stories of their grandfather, of their cousins. Make them proud to be one of Durin’s Folk.”  
“I will,” Morag said, “How many people know? About the baby?” Dis just smiled and reached up to bring Morag’s head down. She touched Morag’s brow with hers.  
“Good luck, Morag,” she said, “You’ll make a fine mother.” She left, returning back the way she had come, leaving Morag stood in the empty hall, clutching the blanket.

*

Thranduil wasn’t in the tent when Morag returned. Most of what was in it had been packed away, ready for the journey back to the Woodland Realm. Thranduil’s large chair remained still. Morag climbed into it, her feet curled up underneath her and she looked at the blanket. It was old but soft and warm. She tried to imagine what an infant Thorin must have looked like, safe and warm in this ocean of rich blue but she couldn’t picture his face. Instead she saw an infant with Thranduil’s nose and cheekbones, her mother’s mouth, a baby with black curls. She sniffed as she wiped away tears, of happiness this time as her free hand traced a golden thread in the blanket.

She stared at the weaving of blue and gold, discovering threads of silver and bronze hidden in the fabric. She must have stared for hours. She didn’t hear Thranduil come in. It wasn’t until he knelt before her, his hands covering hers.  
“What is this?” he asked.  
“An heirloom,” Morag answered, “It was my father’s when he was an infant, and my cousins. Dis gave it to me, to wrap our little one in.”  
“It is beautiful,” he said softly, “Why the tears?” He reached up one hand, his thumb brushing away a stray tear.  
“I’m happy,” Morag said, “For a long time, I thought I would never feel love, and I found it, in the most unlikely place. And now, everything is happening so fast I…” Thranduil stood up quickly, lifting her from the chair and sitting down with her in his lap, the blanket spread out over them.  
“It is true,” he said, “Everything between us happened very quickly, quicker than I ever should have allowed. But nothing will change how I feel about you. There was a hole in my heart for a long time, and nothing could fill that void. Then you came into my life. At first it was your body that intoxicated me, drove me mad with desire, and then you began to open up to me, telling me about your past, your mother, your father, and I fell in love with your heart as well.” Morag stroked his hair gently. Thranduil’s arms tightened around her, his head dropping down to rest his forehead against hers.  
“I felt happy for the first time in a long while,” Thranduil said, his hand stretching out across her belly, “And the night we made this one…I had not felt such joy in centuries.” He kissed her deeply, drawing out a soft whimper from her.  
“I will never willingly let you go,” he said softly, “I will fight for us, to keep us together. You should not fear that I will tire of you, that I will change my mind. I need you, Morag, like I need air to breathe. Gi melian, Morag.”

Morag rested her head on his shoulder and smiled. The hand that rested on her hip stroked her gently.  
“So, Lady Dis has given us this for the little one?” he said, moving his hand from her stomach to the blanket. Morag nodded.  
“Well, they are very lucky then,” Thranduil said, “To have such a wonderful gift so soon.”  
“I can’t wait to meet…whoever it is in there,” she said, “It’s strange, I don’t know how to refer to…it.”  
“Well, what do you think? What does your heart tell you?” Thranduil said.  
“My head says boy because most Dwarves are male,” she said, “But my heart says girl.”  
“Then that is what we shall say,” he replied, “She is very lucky to have you as her mother. And I think she knows you are going to keep her nice and safe until she is ready to join us.”  
“I love you, Thranduil,” Morag said, leaning in and kissing him, “I can’t wait to meet her.”

 


	29. Home

Morag didn’t sleep well that night. Even though, Thranduil lay beside her, his warm hands resting on her hip, she couldn’t find rest. In the morning, everything was going to change. She would be leaving Dale, and her old life of wandering the world behind. She would be returning to Mirkwood with the Elf-King. She would be living a life of ease, and comfort. This was not a life she was familiar with and it made her feel uneasy, despite Thranduil’s best attempts to reassure her. Life was going to be changing for him too. His son, Legolas, was to leave in the morning as well, but Mirkwood was not his destination. He would pass through briefly to get some supplies before continuing westwards to the Misty Mountains and Rivendell. From there, he would seek out Morag’s kin. There was no knowing how long he would spend with the Dunedain, or if he would ever feel ready to return, save for his promise to visit in time for the arrival of his new sibling. Tilting her head, Morag looked out the north-facing opening at the back of the tent. The sky was beginning to lighten. She felt as tired as she had when she had gone to bed. She gently lifted Thranduil’s arm and climbed out of bed. She dressed and slipped out the tent.

The new people of Dale were already stirring as she walked the quiet streets. She could hear women lighting the fires, starting to prepare breakfast for their families. As she turned a corner, she heard a faint click-clacking sound. On a doorstep, halfway down the street, an old woman sat with two long bone needles in her hand and a ball of yarn by her side. Morag was surprised, so much had been lost when Smaug had attacked, but this woman still had her knitting.  
“Hello, love,” the woman spoke as Morag drew near.  
“What are you making?” Morag asked.  
“This was supposed to be for my daughter,” the woman said, “She was due her little ‘un any day now, or she was, before the dragon came. I was just coming back from her house, helping her make some little socks.” She paused and picked up a patchwork bag from her side.  
“This is all I have left,” she said softly though Morag could hear a quiver in her voice, “My husband is long gone and now so is my girl.” She made a final stitch.  
“There,” she said, pulling out a small knife and cutting the yarn, “All it needs is the seams sewing and it’s all finished.”  
“My name is Morag,” said Morag.  
“Asta,” the woman said.  
“Could you show me, Asta? Could you show me how to knit?”  
“In the family way are you?” Asta said, patting the doorstep next to her, “I can show you how easily enough.”

Morag spent over an hour on the stone doorstep with Asta as she showed her how to hold the needles, how to push the needle through a loop, which way to pull the yarn and slowly, a shape began to form.  
“Did your mother never teach you?” Asta asked finally.  
“I don’t think she knew,” Morag said as she began to sow the seam, “She was a warrior, I don’t think it was in her nature to learn.”  
“Well, you picked it up as natural as,” Asta said, “There you are, Morag, your first sock.” She helped Morag cut the yarn and showed her what she had achieved.  
“Your little ‘un will have some nice warm feet when they arrive,” Asta said, smiling.  
“Thank you, Asta,” Morag said, “I don’t know much about being a mother, and knitting and sewing. I don’t know much about anything except being a warrior, and I…I worry that I won’t be any good at it.”  
“You’ll do fine, love,” Asta said, “He won’t let you fail.” She nodded at something behind Morag.

Looking over her shoulder, Morag saw Thranduil stood a short way off, leaning against a building, watching. He didn’t look himself, being dressed only casually, no robe or crown in sight.  
“He’s been there a while,” Asta said, “I should go see if my breakfast is ready.” She stood up and headed inside. Thranduil walked over slowly and sat down beside her.  
“You did not sleep,” he said, his arm sneaking around her waist, pulling her close.  
“No, I’m restless,” Morag said, playing with the sock she had made, “Nervous, I guess.”  
“Did you make that all by yourself?” he asked, his free hand reaching out to touch her handiwork.  
“Asta helped me,” she said, “I’ve never done anything like this.” Thranduil pressed a kiss to the top of her head.  
“You have time to make another,” he said, “After all, she will have two feet. There is no need to be nervous, I am here.”  
“Thranduil, I know that I’m not going to be a perfect fit in your life,” Morag said, “People will be expecting me to act a certain way, speak a certain way, and I don’t know if I will be able to do it. I might sometimes speak honestly and people will think me rude…”  
“I do not care what my people think,” Thranduil interrupted, “I am not doing this for them. I have sacrificed everything for the good of my people for centuries. I am bringing you back, I am loving you because I want to. I want you for me, not for my people. Selfish as it may seem, I am doing something purely for myself for once. My people can wish of you all they want, I do not care for their opinions of you, only mine own. And I believe that given time, yes, you may be able to be more than just my lover.”  
“You said I couldn’t be Queen,” Morag pointed out.  
“Not a Queen, but there is something,” Thranduil said, “An old title, King’s Consort.”  
“Consort?”  
“Yes,” Thranduil said, “It is intended for the unmarried loved one of the King. Not a Queen, but of similar standing. We shall discuss it more when we arrive home.”  
“Home,” Morag said quietly, “I’m looking forward to it.”

*

It was four days later that they arrived back in the Woodland Realm. Some of the Elves had remained in Dale to help with the repairs to the city before the harshest winter weather could arrive, but with so many injured and soldiers, travelling took a long time. Morag had taken every opportunity she could to sleep the way she had spent her whole life, curled up next to the campfire, her coat wrapped around her. Mostly she would be awoken some time later by Thranduil wrapping her up in his robe or his cloak but he never tried to bring her back inside the tent.

The day finally dawned on their return and Morag walked through the gates of the Realm once more. But this time she was not a prisoner. This time she walked side by side with the Elf-King himself, his hand entwined with her own. As they made their way in, Morag could hear the soft voices of the Elves calling out that the King had returned. Thranduil gave his orders to Feren and Galion, to see that the injured were taken to be healed, that the other soldiers were sent for food and rest and for what had been brought back was to be unpacked. When they had taken their leave, Thranduil led Morag along a path she recognised. He was leading her to his chambers. He led her along the twists and turns, past the throne room until they emerged into his private bath. There, he pulled her into his arms and kissed her deeply.  
“Do you remember our first time in here?” he asked, “When you surrendered yourself to me?”  
“How could I forget?” she replied, “You were obnoxious, arrogant and entirely too aware of the effect you had on me?”  
“There is one thing we never had the chance to do,” he whispered, “I never got the chance to bathe with you.”  
“I suppose that could be arranged,” Morag answered, shrugging off her coat and earning a smile from Thranduil. She helped him with the fastenings of his armour and in turn, he helped her pull off her boots before sweeping her up in his arms and carrying her into the deep pool of blissfully warm water.

Morag looked up at him, one hand stroking the platinum hair that fell over his shoulders. His head leaned into her touch. The first time she had seen him, he had looked so indomitable and cruel. But now his demeanour would soften at her touch and he held her with such tenderness, caring for her, worrying about her. If she had been told six weeks ago what would happen to her, that she and the Elf-King would fall into each other’s arms and hearts, she would have laughed, but now, she craved him, his touch, his affection. She felt safest in his arms and she tightened hers around his neck.  
“Morag?” he said, “Are you alright? Is something wrong?”  
“No,” she replied, “Everything is perfect.” She felt one of his hands leave her and he ducked slightly. As he rose back up, she felt warm water trickle down her back.  
“What are you doing?” she asked.  
“Bathing you,” he answered, “It is my duty to protect and care for you, both as my Consort, and the mother of my unborn child.”  
“I’m still capable of bathing myself.”  
“Indulge me,” he said, lowering her into the water properly.

He guided her towards the edge of the pool to where an underwater step provided a seat. He lowered himself down and guided her down to sit on his lap. Morag smiled as he began to wash her skin with his bare hands and with such tenderness, first her arms and then her back before moving on to her stomach. He stroked the skin of her belly with such tenderness, Morag covered his hand with one of her own.  
“Has your sickness been bothering you?” he asked, his voice barely more than a whisper.  
“A little,” she answered, “It comes and goes. But it will be worth it, when she arrives.” There was silence between them for a moment.  
“Will she be called a princess?” Morag asked, “Even though you and I are not able to marry…”  
“This is the beauty of the title of King’s Consort,” Thranduil said softly, “It acknowledges an intent to marry you on my part but does not require it for our child to be legitimate.”  
“Meaning?”  
“She would be second in line to the throne behind Legolas,” Thranduil said, “She will be a princess, yes.”  
“You said that the Consort is on similar standing to a Queen,” Morag said.  
“Yes,” Thranduil said, “I will not give you any duties too taxing until after the little one has arrived, but you will be able to attend court with me, see to some minor official duties, receive reports from my generals and other staff. In time, I may even be able to allow you to run the court for a day or so without me. You would not be asked to pass judgement on crimes, but you can order for extra guards to be dispatched to our borders, greet envoys and guests.”  
“And what will you be doing when I’m doing all that?”  
“I will be spending time with the little one, I hope,” he said.  
“You would trust me to run your kingdom so what? You can play patty-cake with the baby?”  
“What is patty-cake?”  
“I’ll teach you,” Morag laughed. Thranduil’s arms wrapped around her and buried his face in her neck.  
“We should enjoy this time while we have it,” he said, “I fear it will not last long before duty calls me away.” He kissed her neck gently as she leaned into him, content for now and considerably less nervous.


	30. Nell

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The final chapter! Descriptions of childbirth!

“Breathe,” Morag whispered to herself, “Breathe.” She took another few steps, breathing deeply before feeling the vice-like tightening in her back again.  
“No, no, no, no,” she moaned, leaning against the wall as the pain began to wrap around her body until she almost fell to her knees in agony. The twinges that had started late the night before had escalated and she had no doubt at all that she was in full labour now. They were getting closer together and Morag was struggling to keep calm. Her mind was racing at top speed. This was it, after all these months, the baby was coming and now, she wasn’t sure she could do it. She didn’t even know if her body was made to give birth, she was the only half-Dwarf in the world. Who knew what could go wrong? The pain was unbearable and she found herself thinking about the women she had seen lose their lives in childbirth. 

“Breathe,” she said to herself, “Breathe, Morag.” The next pain wasn’t far away and she needed to concentrate. She needed to focus, she had an important job to do. She had to bring her baby into this world, that was her job. The pain came again and she slid down the wall, letting out a scream.

“Morag!” she heard Thranduil’s voice.  
“Where the hell have you been?!” Morag cried out as he came down the steps into the bed chamber. Thranduil emerged from the steps on the opposite side of the bed chamber. She watched as he took a moment to see her crumpled on the floor, the small puddles dotted around the floor. The pain eased for a moment.  
“Don’t leave me,” she begged, having a moment of clarity.  
“Of course not,” Thranduil said, hurrying across the room in time to enclose her in his arms as another contraction hit.  
“It hurts!” she screamed.  
“I know, my dear,” Thranduil said as she dug her fingers into his arms, “I know. I wish I could make it stop. Galion!” The butler came hurrying down the stairs.  
“Fetch the midwife,” Thranduil said, “Quickly.” Galion nodded, swiftly turned and disappeared back up the stairs. Thranduil scooped her up and carried her to the bed.  
“No, no, no,” Morag groaned, “I’ll spoil the bed covers.”  
“I do not care about the bedding,” Thranduil said, “I care about your comfort. You are not giving birth on the floor.”

He laid her down and she rolled over onto her hands and knees as another contraction tore through her. Morag bit down onto a pillow to muffle her screams as she felt Thranduil’s warm hand on her back, rubbing along her spine, trying to soothe her. ‘Breathe,’ Morag thought to herself, ‘Breathe.’  
“How are you feeling?” Thranduil asked, “Other than in pain?”  
“This is good,” Morag said, “And so is that.” Morag didn’t think she was making much sense but Thranduil seemed to understand.  
“Th…Thranduil, I want to push,” she said, “I want to push.”  
“Gently, my love,” he said, still rubbing her back, “You do not want to exhaust yourself if you are not ready.”  
“Uhhhhh, I hope that midwife hurries up,” Morag said, shifting her weight as she felt another contraction building. Thranduil said nothing but held her hand with his free one as she focussed on breathing and a little push.  
“Is that better?” he asked as her grip on his hand eased. She nodded.  
“Thank you,” she whispered, taking deep breaths.

The sound of two sets of feet hurrying down the steps heralded the return of Galion with the midwife. She was the same She-Elf who had come to Dale and had been attending to Morag throughout her pregnancy. Morag had since learnt her name was Alphiaeth and she had delivered Legolas centuries before, along with countless other children.  
“Hello, Morag,” Alphiaeth said, sitting on the bed on Morag’s other side, “How are you doing?”  
“It fucking hurts,” Morag groaned, tightening her hold on Thranduil’s hand.  
“She was complaining of spasms last night,” Thranduil said, “It looks as if her water has come and she just felt the urge to push.” Morag wanted to laugh. He sounded like an old hand at this.  
“Alright then,” said Alphiaeth, “I will just have a quick look and see if you are ready.” Morag heard Galion retreating.  
“My King if you would just…”  
“No!” Morag said sharply, “He stays.”  
“But…”  
“But nothing!” she growled as the pain returned again, “It’s nothing he hasn’t already seen, and this is half his bloody fault anyway.” The pain faded and she drew in deep breaths.  
“Please don’t send him away,” she said more quietly, “I don’t have anyone else.” There was silence for a moment.  
“Very well,” Alphiaeth said, “Normally I would encourage for your mother, or a sister or friend to be with you, but as you said, you have no one else.”  
“No one else I don’t mind seeing me with my arse in the air,” Morag muttered as she felt the midwife begin to ruck up her dress. The She-Elf cursed under her breath.  
“You are much further along than I thought,” she said, “On the next pain, I want you to push as hard as you can. Baby should be here very soon. Just keep breathing.”  
“Do I need to move?” Morag asked.  
“No, Morag, if this is comfortable, then I will work around you,” she replied, “Just open your legs a touch more. Now remember, breathe through the pain and push, like we talked about.” Morag nodded.

She felt Thranduil kiss the side of her head.  
“Thank you for staying,” she whispered, even as she felt the pain begin again.  
“I would not miss this for the world,” he replied, “Breathe.” Morag breathed in and then out, pushing with the pain.  
“Well done, Morag,” Alphiaeth said, “That was very good. A few more pushes like that and we will nearly have baby’s head out. Push with the pain.”   
“Morag, you can do this,” Thranduil said, “I am right here and I will not leave.”  
“Damn right you won’t,” Morag said, “Arghhh! Here we go again!”  
“Deep breathe,” Alphiaeth said calmly, “And push!” Morag breathed in and pushed as she exhaled.  
“Very good, Morag,” the midwife continued, “Keep going! Keep going! Yes, perfect.”  
“Is she nearly here yet?” Morag sobbed when she felt the pain ease, “I can feel something stretching.”  
“Yes, Morag, I can see the head,” Alphiaeth said, “I think two more like that last one and baby will be here.”  
“Thranduil, I’m scared,” Morag said, “I’m scared.”  
“You have nothing to fear,” Thranduil said, “I promise you.”  
“I want to move,” Morag said, “I want to be on my back. I’m tired.”  
“I would not recommend moving, Morag,” Alphiaeth said, “Baby is almost here. You will need to push again in a moment. I promise, as soon as baby is here, I will let you lie down.” Morag let out a groan of frustration, lowering her head onto the bed.  
“Is there nothing we can do for her discomfort?” Thranduil asked.  
“No, it would not take effect before the child is born,” Alphiaeth said, “Alright, big push for me now, Morag. Remember, breathe.” Morag lifted her head back up, taking in a deep breath before pushing down hard. She felt the stretching again and momentarily forgot her breathing. Instead she screamed, it felt like fire was coursing through her but she kept pushing, ending her scream quickly.  
“Perfect Morag, keep going, keep going,” Alphiaeth said, “Alright, now stop!” Morag sobbed as she fought for breath.  
“Morag,” Aphiaeth said softly, “Morag, you have done that hardest part. That sensation you felt, was your baby’s head being born. One more push, and they will be here.”  
“Well done, my love,” Thranduil said, “You are almost there.”  
“I wish my mother was here,” Morag said, “I wish she were still alive, and I wish Thorin were alive too, and Fili, and Kili…”  
“There are many I wish were here to share this moment with us as well, my love,” Thranduil said. Alphiaeth was momentarily forgotten as Morag lifted her head to look him in the eye.  
“But we have what we need,” he said, “You and I, and our little one will be here, and Legolas is on his way too. Trust me, your mother and father will know, and they will be proud of you.”  
“I love you,” Morag said.  
“And I you,” Thranduil replied as her hand tightened around his again, “This is it, Morag, last push, and remember, breathe, my darling.” Morag took a deep breath.  
“Push when you are ready,” Alphiaeth spoke quietly. Morag closed her eyes and pushed with the last of her strength, feeling Alphiaeth pulling gently as the child slid from her body. Morag let out a groan as she felt the pain vanish almost instantly, panting to catch her breath.

She opened her eyes when she didn’t hear anything for a moment. Then…a high-pitched cry made Morag sob as she felt a rush of joy. She looked at Thranduil who was looking past her to the midwife, a look on his face that Morag didn’t know how to describe. He looked in awe of what he was seeing, no doubt the crying infant being tended to by the midwife, a tear was creeping down his cheek.  
“Thranduil?” Morag said, her voice shaking as she felt tears of her own fall. He turned and looked at her.  
“We should get you laid down so you can hold her,” he said. He helped her move onto her back, covering her with a spare blanket as Alphiaeth stood up. The midwife smiled as she handed the bundle in her arms to Morag before quickly retreating from the room.  
“Congratulations,” Thranduil said, “You have a beautiful daughter.” Morag looked down at the child in her arms. Wrapped up in a warm blanket was a tiny pink little girl, who was looking up at her mother with big blue eyes. Morag couldn’t contain the joy she was feeling and she began to cry tears of happiness.  
“She’s beautiful,” she said, turning to look at him, “She has your eyes.”  
“Yes, and someone else’s hair,” he replied, pushing back the blanket to show a thick covering of black hair, “Name your daughter, Morag.”  
“Our daughter is called Nell,” Morag said, “Nell Thranduiliel.”  
“I have an assistant coming along, she will be cleaning the little Princess up,” Alphiaeth said softly as she returned, “And I will have to help Morag with her afterbirth. My King, I am told your son has arrived. Leave Morag and the child to me, I will send for you when they are ready.”  
“Thank you, Alphiaeth,” Thranduil said before turning back to Morag, “I must go see Legolas. Will you be alright without me?”  
“Even though I’m exhausted, I feel I could take on the world right now,” Morag said, “Go, see your son, but first, hold your daughter.” Thranduil reached down and lifted the baby from Morag’s arms. He began to talk to her softly in Elvish and she gurgled in response, making him smile. He lent in and pressed a kiss to the child’s head before handing her to the midwife.

*

It was some hours later, after both she and Nell had been cleaned up, after the afterbirth had been delivered, after the bed had been changed and the floor cleaned, that Thranduil was sent for once more. Morag was sat up in the bed, holding Nell who had been wrapped in the blanket given to Morag by Dis. Nell’s hair was beginning to dry and curl, like Morag’s, like Thorin’s. She had inherited Thranduil’s nose too it seemed, and her ears had delicate points to them like his as well.  
“You have no idea how much you are loved, do you?” Morag found herself saying, “Or how special you are. You are the union of three different races, of three different bloodlines. You are of the royal line of High Elves from your father, your Ada. From my mother, you are one of the Dunedain and the Royal Line of Numenor. And from my father, the Dwarves of Erebor, from Durin’s Line. You are the only one of your kind ever to have existed, Elf, Dwarf and Man. And you are so loved. Your Ada has been in love with you from the moment we made you, I could tell by the way he looked at where you were growing, the way he spoke about you, to you. I love you, Nell, more than I can ever say.” She bent down and kissed her daughter’s forehead, smelling Nell’s scent and smiling.

She heard the faint tapping of shoes on stone steps and looked up to see Legolas stepping into the room, his father close behind him. He lingered near the stairs as Thranduil crossed the room to sit on the edge of the bed near Morag.  
“Come on, Legolas, don’t be shy,” Morag said, looking at the Elf-Prince, “Come meet your sister.” Legolas stepped forward hesitantly.  
“I did as you asked,” he said quietly as he drew closer, “I took a chest to Lord Elrond in Rivendell. He…He told me how to find your kin, and I have delivered the second chest to them. They were most suspicious of me until I told them of the time you attacked your cell door, then they believed me.” Morag chuckled.  
“How long will you stay?” she asked as the Prince came within arm’s reach.  
“A month, but no more,” he said, “Your kin were impressed by my knife work and asked me to return, to help teach their young men. May I hold her?”  
“Of course,” Morag said, allowing Thranduil to lift Nell from her arms and place her in Legolas’, guiding the Prince on how to hold her.  
“What did you name her?” Legolas asked.  
“Nell,” Morag said.  
“Nell? That is an Elvish word,” Legolas said.  
“Yes, I know,” Morag said, “It means bell doesn’t it?” Thranduil nodded.  
“Nell was also my grandmother’s name, my mother’s mother,” Morag said, “I thought it appropriate. My name after all has a meaning in the tongue of the Dwarves.” She wasn’t sure if Legolas heard her or not. He was too busy staring at his new sister, gently rocking from side to side, as if by instinct.  
“I shall have to send word to Dale and Erebor,” Thranduil said, “They sent word last month, Legolas, the Dwarves of Erebor are recognising Morag as a Princess of their people, and said they would recognise her child accordingly.”  
“She and I have some of the most complicated titles in all of Middle-Earth,” Morag said, “Morag, daughter of Thorin, Princess of Erebor, and King’s Consort of the Woodland Realm. And now, Nell Thranduiliel, Princess of the Woodland Realm and Erebor, daughter of Thranduil Oropherion and Morag, daughter of Thorin.” Nell stirred in Legolas’ arms and gurgled at her brother, making him smile as he sat down at the foot of the bed.  
“She has such dark hair,” Legolas said to his father, “And it is curling already.”  
“That is the Dwarf in her,” Thranduil said, bending over slightly to look at Nell.

Morag smiled to see them talking to and about Nell.  _That’s all I want for you, to know love with a willing heart._ Thorin’s words from the battle eight months before rang through her head. All that time ago, she had fought against what she had been feeling, battling against falling for Thranduil. Her heart had been closed for a long time, and so had his. But now, with their daughter in the world, Morag could feel the love already filling this room, with this little family that she was a part of.  
“Morag? Are you alright?” Thranduil asked, looking up from Nell.  
“I’m fine,” she said, “I’m just happy.”

 


End file.
